


Unfounded

by moochymochi



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: But Pre-Van Days, Car Sex, Face Slapping, Let's Start a Band, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Public Sex, Underage Drinking, Van Days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2020-07-24 22:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20021893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moochymochi/pseuds/moochymochi
Summary: Patrick sings for a local pop punk band that's ready to explode onto the scene. Pete wants in and does everything he can to prove his worth, whether or not it's best for the band's dynamic. As they struggle to crawl out of Chicago's underground, they soon find themselves questioning the worth of their music and relationships.Pre-Van Days AU. Mature in later chapters. Flirty!Patrick and Ambitious!Pete.





	1. Chapter 1

“He’s..!”

Pete had seen the blurry photos online. He had heard the rumors. Now that he was here, he knew this was the real fucking deal. In the months leading up to this night, he was unable to truly describe it. It was euphoric. He could taste the electricity in the air, he could feel how the crowd moved with the music. Hell, he could smell how hard the band was working from the waves of sweat and musk that washed over him. This singer, Patrick, was supposed to be the king of Chicago’s underground scene. This guy was poised to become the face of pop punk that was set to take the country by firestorm. It was going to be glorious, absurdly glorious. 

He had to get in on this.

The song ended and everyone erupted into a hearty round of applause and cheers, feet stomping and palms pounding the edge of the stage. The floorboards creaked from the sudden movement, somehow growling, like a tired beast awoken from its slumber. Due to the venue, The Hideout as it was known, being built in the 70’s, it was easy for a rambunctious group to quite literally shake the place to its core. The city’s rainy and snowy weather didn’t do any favors for the venue’s structural integrity, either. The saggy roof above them appeared to be ready to collapse at the slightest agitation. Not that anyone cared. It added to its charm, if anything. People came here to lose themselves and escape the outside world. 

The band’s drummer and lead guitarist hammed it up with a few dramatic bows and twirls. They were met with hollers of approval, their expressions showing how eager they were to accept and relish in the given affection. Their bassist was already exiting through the tiny door to the left, uninterested, and Patrick retook the microphone as he slung his guitar around his back. He waved his hand for silence and then dragged his fingers through his damp blonde hair, dripping and huffing. Everyone’s eyes shifted to where he stood and held their breath. 

“All right,” Patrick exhaled, practically frenching the microphone with how close he was, “you mothafuckers have been amazing tonight. We don’t deserve you--”

“We _FUCKIN’_ love you, Trick!” a young woman shrieked, her voice cracking on his name. A few excited shouts accompanied her outburst.

“Love you, too! Don’t ever change! We’ll be here next month to do this shit all over again, hah. We are Charnel House and we thank you! Goodnight, drive safe! We’re out!” Patrick dropped the microphone the instant he had finished speaking. His voice resonated for a fleeting golden moment before it faded completely. He spun on his heel and disappeared toward the back of the stage. The other band members followed suit and soon the twinkling rafter lights had nothing to show beneath their glow.

At the left side of the stage, Pete waited patiently for the crowd to disperse. People began to filter out through the building’s side doors. There was pushing and laughing and yelling about what fantastic show it had been. A couple of smaller groups tried to linger to catch a glimpse of the band, however, the two surly security guards were quick to shut their efforts down. As soon as Pete saw security snarling about how the band wasn’t coming out to greet any fans, he took action. He hopped toward the bar, dodging tipsy stumblers and squealing teenagers. He leaned against the counter and caught the bartender’s attention. She was alone and absolutely not in the mood for idle chit-chat.

“Hi, Kayla,” Pete grinned at her. She looked sexy in her work uniform, and he wondered why she was always complaining about it. That little bowtie really sold it. “Any chance you can slip me into the back? I need to talk to the guys that just played.”

Kayla, in the middle of trying to wipe down her station, scoffed at him, “Get fucked, Wentz. My boss’ll kill me if I let you back there. ‘Sides, I know you’re just going to harass them, definitely not talk to them or whatever you said.”

“Okay, cool.. Does that mean I can tell Jimmy you cheated on him last month?”

“No! What, no! You can’t, please.”

“What’s the worst that could happen? You think he’ll dump you?” Pete teased. He leaned in further and batted his eyelashes for an added layer of obnoxiousness. 

Kayla grit her teeth, “I mean, who says he’ll believe you, anyway? I’ve known him longer than you have.”

Pete’s grin only grew wider, “I still have that voicemail you left me. Something about.. Oh, I don’t know.. ‘Baby, I’m just a call away, lemme be your naughty girl’. Yeah. I’m sure Jimmy will enjoy that.”

“You,” Kayla struggled, her fingers gripping the counter and her cheeks burning, “you’re a real pain, you know that?”

“Sure I am. So can I get back there or what?”

“.. Like I have a choice. Don’t piss anyone off, got it?”

“No promises.”

Kayla muttered some insult and moved to unhitch the wooden panel that allowed for access behind the bar. She folded her arms across her chest and stared furiously at him. With him inside, she ignored the wave he offered and slammed the wooden panel shut once more. The slam echoed throughout the near-empty venue, abandoned glasses trembling against their paper coasters.

“Thanks, you’re a real sweetheart,” Pete said. “Let’s do this again sometime?”

Without a word, Kayla continued wiping down her station. 

Almost skipping, Pete made his way past her and turned the back door’s knob. He squeezed through. He did his best to keep quiet, yet failed to keep his jaw from falling open.

\---

Disappointed by the sight that welcomed him, Pete hesitated. The door had closed behind him, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel trapped.

Within the performer’s greenroom, essentially an equipment storage area with a few tables and chairs, there wasn’t much to see; Patrick was nowhere to be seen, the bassist had on a pair of headphones that were attached to a portable cassette player, the drummer was polishing pieces of his kit, and the lead guitarist was arguing with a taller gentleman who appeared to be the owner. The argument soon came to a close and the owner walked off through another door at the rear of the room. The door was slammed and echoed in an uncomfortable way. 

Obviously irritated from the aftermath of the argument, the guitarist began to rant at the drummer, “C’mon, Andy, what was that dude’s deal? He said he would pay us a hundred bucks each!”

“Eh.. I hate to be on his side, but he never specified that it was a hundred bucks each. I just remember hearing the number ‘one hundred’. Pretty sure he meant it as the singular payment for the whole group,” Andy replied. He absently scratched at his patch of peach fuzz and didn't went on with cleaning his bass drum pedal.

“It’s bullshit.”

“Joe, it’s best if you drop it. We need him to like us so we can come back here next month.”

“Hmph.”

Pete decided that he should inject himself now rather than later, in case the mood turned more bitter than it already appeared to be. His hands were wiped on the front of his jeans, and he blamed his nerves trying to get the better of him. He walked forward and kept his features bright and friendly. He could do this. He had to talk to them, no big deal. Unfortunately, Joe and his flared temper spotted him first.

“Who’re you?” Joe demanded. He held up a hand, cutting Pete off, “Wait, were you the extra merch guy from tonight? How’d we do?”

“I, no, listen,” Pete fumbled, “you guys were crazy good out there. I’ve never seen a crowd get that wild for such a small band.”

Joe was thrilled to be given praise, his anger subsiding. He chuckled, “Whoa, whoa! We’re local, but we’re not _small_.”

“I didn’t mean to be insulting, sorry.”

“It’s fine. What are you here for, then? Autographs?”

Pete shook his head, a cursory glance tossed to the bass player to ensure that he was still preoccupied with his headphones, “No, I have mad respect for you guys, and I wanted to.. to talk. See, I’m a bass player, and, and I’m a lyricist, too.”

“You?” Joe’s eyebrows rose as he looked him up and down, clearly not ready to buy whatever this sales pitch had in stock. He beckoned for Andy to join him. His tone seemed to become more bold with his bandmate beside him, “What’s your point?”

Pete swallowed thickly, his adrenaline pumping with both Joe and Andy watching him. He held a finger up, signaling for them to wait, and went to retrieve something out of his back pocket. It was several creased sheets of notebook paper, the purplish ink he had used bleeding through the lines. Unfolding them, he offered them up and said, “Here. I wrote these last month after I heard an audio clip of you guys playing ‘Fever Pitch’. It’s, well, it’s a riff on that song. Oh, and here, this second page has lyrics I wrote after I listened to your EP.”

“Okay..?” Joe reluctantly took Pete’s lyrics, toying with his lip ring using his free hand. He held the papers close enough to allow Andy for a solid view, as well. 

“I understood the message you guys were trying to put out,” Pete said, excitedly scanning their faces for a reaction, “and I kinda rewrote it. And I don’t mean that what you originally had was shit or whatever. This is a different take on it that I think people will resonate with more. It’s more poetic and stuff.”

That ‘and stuff’ bit should really sell it. Fuck, he was an idiot. 

Less than a minute had gone by before Andy was bobbing his head with approval, “This is good. I like it a lot, man. How did you come up with this?”

“Natural instinct, I guess? Your music majorly grabbed my attention and when I found the lyrics, I loved their message, but not their delivery. I wanted to, respectfully, fix them,” Pete said. 

Andy tucked the rag he had been polishing with into his pocket, asking, "Have you ever written for a band before? Or even played in one?"

"Nope," Pete replied.

“Weird. But Andy's right, what you have here is good. What did you say your name was again?” Joe crossed his arms and waited. 

“I didn’t say my name,” Pete beamed, “but it’s Pete. I live around here and have thought you guys were the fuckin’ bomb since I first heard you.”

“Thanks, the band was my idea,” Joe quipped, nudging Andy who only rolled his eyes in response.

“Really?” Pete wondered, stepping closer.

“What, you don’t think a high schooler can start a successful band?”

“No way, I don’t think that! If anything, I wish I had been able to do that when I was younger.”

Joe nodded, pleased with this answer, “Hey man, thanks. You’re all right. But.. if you’re serious about the lyrics and helping the band, you’re gonna have to talk to Patrick. He’s the one who currently writes everything.”

“I’m not sure if he’s going to like this,” Andy warned gently. He gestured toward one of the side doors. “He’s outside finishing his drink, if you want to talk to him. We like it, yeah, it’s pretty great - it’s just that Patrick can get picky about lyrics.”

“Patrick’s picky about everything,” Joe half-joked. “Plus, uhhh, we already have a bassist. Ronnie helped me get this band off its feet.”

Together, they turned to peek at the young man, Ronnie, with his back still facing them, oblivious to their conversation. In the brief silence, the faint sound of heavy death metal pouring out of his headphones could be detected. His hunched, defensive posture told them that he wouldn’t engage in their conversation even if he had been invited with open arms.

Pete cleared his throat, “Can I go talk to Patrick? Or can you guys bring him in here?”

“I mean, yeah, you can, we’re not his keeper, heh,” Joe said, his fingers hooked through his belt loops. “Go ahead. Now’s as good a time as any. That door right there.”

He pointed to one of the side doors that had the phrase ‘Parking Lot’ painted above it. 

“Cool, thank you, I,” Pete reached out to shake their hands, “I appreciate your time. Joe and Andy, right? Awesome, thanks again. I’ll talk to guys in a while.”

“Hopefully,” Andy added. 

“Yeah, hopefully.”

\---

Patrick was grateful for the night’s cool air and the distance away from any distractions. It was just him and his Miller Lite. He sipped and pressed his back to the brick wall of the building. He did his best to ignore the ringing in his ears and the ache in his throat. It had been a long night, and he knew he was going to have to do it all over again tomorrow at a different venue downtown.

This type of gig, where the sound quality was lacking and the owner was a cheapass, were his least favorite to play. Aside from the obvious reasons, he hated how warm he got up on stage. There was no air conditioning, only plastic fans! He had soaked through his two t-shirts and was fairly sure that he was dehydrated. He had chugged a bottle of water the minute they had exited the stage and had become dizzy. It sucked. And in spite of that, he couldn’t say no when Andy had managed to sneak him a beer. Free alcohol was always a plus, dizziness be damned. He sighed, thinking back on how tonight’s show went. His tendency to nitpick soon took over and he had to fight the urge to rip apart his own performance. 

For now, he deserved to relax. 

“Hey there! Patrick, right?” Pete came poking through the side door. Worse, its weight caused it to slam behind him. It was too much noise for their two seconds of knowing each other. 

“... Uhm?” Patrick winced. He lifted his head to blink at this sudden, strange intrusion. “That’s me, what’s up?”

Patrick stared at this new person waltzing into previously-private moment. Who the hell was this? His initial impression was that it was a college kid with no direction for his future, and who was desperate to fill the void in his life with something meaningful. That and, _ugh_ , he was a big fan of Abercrombie, judging by those stupidly tight jeans he had on. In the back of his mind, he heard his bandmates scolding him for his typical sourpuss attitude, leading him to ‘scare people’. Just last week he had pissed off a chick Joe had been dying to get with. He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered if he was being too harsh too soon. Besides, he supposed whoever this was couldn't be the worst he could be stuck with. His face was cute, at least.

Pete’s enthusiasm overwhelmed him, and he wound up with a stream of word vomit, “Hi! I love your music, your voice is incredible. So, my name’s Pete and I was talking to Joe and Andy - they told me you’d be out here - and I wanted to show you some lyrics of mine. I’m a lyricist, oh, shit, and I also play bass. You guys seriously inspired me and I wanted to show you what I got. Here, check this out.”

“You--?” Patrick was interrupted and unable to speak. The bundle of handwritten lyrics was shoved into his face, which he agreed to take, and began to read over. He didn’t exactly want to entertain this notion, and only did so due to seeing the first line on the first page; it had a nice flow to it, catching him in the right way. He tapped his fingers on the rim of his beer, thinking. “Interesting..”

Pete was on the edge of his seat, same as he had been throughout the band’s set, anxious to know what Patrick thought of his work. God, he hoped it was good enough. He had agonized over every verse, his bedroom currently filled with a dozen crumpled rejects. They could seriously make something great here, the lyrics and bass-playing simply needed tweaking. And he could do it, he could be that change they needed. He was the cliché dreamer that needed a chance. 

While he was waiting, he couldn’t help but try to get a better view of the young singer. He was about an inch shorter than himself, his frame slim yet with some extra weight on his stomach and face, with his fingernails coated in chipped black polish. His tattered jeans and loose ball cap gave him a boyish appearance, and it seemed that he was no older than eighteen. It was hotter than what he had seen in any snapshots on the Internet. Very teenage rebellion with a splash of self-consciousness.

“Not bad,” Patrick admitted, pausing to take another sip, “but are you saying my lyrics are no good?”

Pete broke away from his thoughts, “Wha? No! Hell no, I think we can improve ‘em, that’s all.”

“And you said you play the bass?”

“Decently, yeah.”

Patrick’s mouth curled upwards, “What am I supposed to do with Ronnie? He’s the one who helped Joe form the band. I can’t just kick him out.”

“Errr,” Pete fumbled, taking back the crinkled sheets, “he can be a backup? Or, I guess, he could be a roadie?”

“Sounds like a hard conversation, Pete.”

“I’m good at hard conversations. I can handle it.”

“That so?”

With a gliding sort of movement in his step, Patrick closed the gap between them and set his bottle down on the ground. He allowed his eyelids to become half-open, his hips angled forward. He reached out to trace along the front of Pete’s jacket and tugged playfully at the hem, the cracked leather matching his calloused fingertips. He, of course, peered around them to ensure that no one was going to be upset by what they were putting on display. When his actions were reciprocated, he smiled. This was definitely one way to negotiate. 

Pete allowed the closeness, and went to brush a few hairs from Patrick’s forehead, saying, “Lemme show you what I can do. You won’t regret it.”

Oh, _come on_. How lucky could he get tonight!? He kept his cool with his brain nearly spinning out of control. He had read that Patrick allegedly had certain preferences, though he had no idea that he could actually be the one to check all the boxes. Or maybe this would be a one time thing, a singular opportunity to mess around? Either way, he was flattered. He damn-near forgot why he was out here to begin with. 

“I’m assuming you’re talking about what you can do for the band..?” Patrick trailed off, losing track of his thoughts as Pete gently caught him by the chin.

“Maybe. I can do a lot for someone like you,” Pete said.

“What’s that mean?”

“Someone so pretty and talented.”

Enticed by the intensity and sensuality of the situation, Patrick accepted the compliment and went in for the first official move. He figured it was the polite thing to do, since he had touched Pete first. Although, Pete was the one who had burst through the door to interfere with his scheduled alone time. So did that technically make Pete the one to start all this? Whatever, there wasn’t time to fuss over it now, it didn’t matter. He wanted to be casual about this. He did a final check to ensure that this is what he thought it was, and was met with Pete’s honey brown eyes silently pleading with him to continue. 

“Wanna seal it with a kiss?” Patrick pressed his lips to Pete’s, puckering on contact and pulling him closer with the grip on his jacket. He lingered for far too long and was glad that he wasn’t pushed away. When he released him, the were both lightly panting, “Welcome to Charnel House, Pete. In case you’re wondering, no, no one pays us. You start tomorrow night.”

Pete was ripe with approval, “You guys are going to be at the Bottom Lounge, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“I think I already said it, but I fuckin’ love this band.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You know, my therapist says that ‘Change can hurt, but it usually leads to the path of something better’,” Pete nodded. He scraped his chopsticks along the bottom of the orange chicken container. The final morsel was brought to his lips and he inhaled it, chewing slowly while listening to his new bandmates.

“Tch,” Joe scoffed, though it was playful, “what therapist do you go to? Do your parents pay for it like they pay for your college?”

“Oooh, burn,” Patrick mocked. He used his elbow to jab Andy who had been smirking and broke his silence by causing him to laugh. 

“Patrick, it’s 2002. No one says ‘burn’ anymore,” Pete said matter-of-factly.

“Yes they do, asshole.”

“Uh huh, sure.” Pete reached into his front pocket and pulled out a crushed fortune cookie still inside its packaging. He tossed it onto the table they were huddled around and everyone crouched forward to see what it was, confused. “That’s my therapist, by the way. Dr. Fortune Cookie. He’s a real good guy. ‘Change can hurt, but it usually leads to the path of something better’, ah, perfect, he’s so eloquent.”

The group continued to chatter and finish off the last bits of their takeout dinner. Pete had brought the food as an apology gift - he was mainly apologizing for replacing their bassist and telling them that their lyrics sucked, but also quietly apologizing for trying to get in the pants of their singer. Whoops. That hadn’t been in his original plan, he could swear on that. It was a happy accident and nothing more. He had definitely overstepped way too many boundaries after knowing them for less than a day, and he wanted to show them that he wasn’t all bad. 

Pete had actually helped with the task of telling Ronnie that he was no longer going to be a part of the band. Together, he and Joe had broken the news to the bassist, who had taken it fairly well, and assured them that there was no bad blood between them. He claimed to want to move onto a band with a heavier sound than the pop punk image that was being pushed for this band. His only departing demand was that he be paid for tonight’s gig that he had already practiced for and helped them book. Joe had wanted to argue this point, however, Pete was grateful for the mostly seamless transition and had paid him off right then and there. Twenty dollars was hardly a price to put on potential musical glory.

Charnel House, now with a new member, had gotten together the following Saturday morning and had practiced for literal hours; bathroom, snack, and smoke breaks were the only things that interrupted their rhythm. Aside from incorporating the style of a fresh bass player, they pushed themselves further by adding in Pete’s lyrics, too. Since they were tonight’s opening band and not the main event, they had a much shorter set than usual. They had a total of six songs that they were scheduled to play, two of which were new ones written by Pete. After joking with him about how juvenile they perceived the verses to be, they relented and managed to work them into the set. And honestly, once they found their groove, it sounded pretty damn good.

“Hey!” of the venue’s stage hands hollered at them, appearing from the doorway and breaking the flow of their conversation. The frown he had remained stuck even after he had everyone’s attention. He tapped his clipboard in annoyance, growling, “You amateurs are on in ten. Get those instruments tuned up.”

With that, the stage hand was out of sight. Beyond the door he had entered from, a crowd could be heard rumbling with impatience. The cheap vinyl flooring of the stage and the low tiled ceiling made for quite the echo, and everyone was riled up with nerves. This would be their first performance with Pete included, and the first time they would be introducing him as an official member. If the crowd didn’t like him or the new lyrics or the fact that Ronnie was gone, they were fucked. Seriously fucked. 

“Did you hear that, Joe? Amateur hour is starting, you better get out there,” Andy said, standing and beginning to clean their messy dinner space. “Don’t want to keep all two of your fans waiting.”

“I’ll happily be an amateur over an old man,” Joe bit back at him. He stuck his tongue out and avoided Andy’s oncoming flick aimed for his head.

“Hah,” Pete joined in. “Wait, how old are you again?”

“Me?” Andy asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m twenty three, same as you.”

Pete shook his head, “Nah, man, I’m twenty four. Just had my birthday a couple of months ago.”

“Shit, that makes you the old man,” Joe taunted. He scurried to one side of the room when Pete pretended to chase him with his chopsticks. They didn’t stop until Andy clapped to get their attention and reminded them that they needed to get ready.

With Andy’s drum kit previously set up and tuned on stage, he continued to busy himself with the cleanup situation. Patrick, Pete, and Joe fidgeted with their strings and pegs until they were satisfied with the sound. They soon had about three minutes before curtain call, and they began to head out to wait at the side of the stage, jittery and mentally reminding themselves of everything they needed to do. They had never played at the Bottom Lounge, and they hoped to make a solid first impression. The greater their performance, the greater chance they had to be invited back.

It was similar to a job interview, only more important. 

Joe over his shoulder and noticed that both Patrick and Pete were missing. He nudged Andy, puzzling, “Where’d they go? They were behind me a second ago..?”

“Dunno, but I think Patrick said he needed to take a piss,” Andy answered. They exchanged raised brows and stressfully watched the stage.

Outside of the bathroom backstage, Pete raised a closed fist to the door and knocked softly, “Got a minute?”

Patrick had barely zipped his pants and was walking toward the sink when he heard this. He reached for the faucet and turned on the water, calling, “Yeah, I’m decent.”

“Well damn,” Pete said, opening the door and leaving it slightly ajar, one hand gripping the handle, “you didn’t have to get decent for me. I’ll take you no matter how you look.”

“You’re funny,” Patrick retorted, his face melting from a soft pale to a warm pink. Being cornered like this wasn’t the worst thing in the world, in fact, it was a turn on for him, but they had a show to get to. In less than three minutes. 

“Is it me, or have you been making eyes at me since we started practice this morning?” Pete’s lips curled upward, watching Patrick toss his used paper towels. 

“In your dreams.”

“Oh, I must be dreamin’ then.”

“Pete, you’re such a--”

Grabbed by his forearms and pulled forward, Patrick had his mouth pressed to Pete’s. Their noses bumped and their was too much fried rice on their breath, yet they found themselves clawing to get a better hold on each other. Pete’s grip now rested at Patrick’s waist, and Patrick’s fingers had woven into Pete’s hair, black with long straightened bangs near the front. Their tongues hurriedly went to slide against one another, a stray moan escaping here and there from their quick gulps for air. They took several steps backward with Patrick’s bullet belt keeping his ass from grinding into the sink. Pete’s frame pushed hard against him, his hands squeezing tight.

“Not sure if you know this,” Pete said, huffing and with his lips on the side of Patrick’s neck, “but I want to fuck you. Or, hey, you can fuck me if you want. I just wanna feel you.”

“I, you,” Patrick floundered, a tingling shiver catching him by surprise. In the distance, he heard their audience cheer, most likely due to an announcement about the show starting soon. Shit. He reached down and grabbed Pete’s wrist, twisting and forcing them to come face-to-face. His eyes narrowed, oceans of green and blue swirling in excitement. “You play this gig well, and we’ll fuck.”

“.. Deal.”

\---

“Cool, cool, glad you’re all here,” Patrick told their audience. He had made it to the microphone with seconds to spare, the angry stage hand from earlier about to go looking for him. His ball cap was adjusted and he tried to not dwell on how flushed his face may appear. The guitar around his back was swung forward and he strummed the intro of one of their more well-known bridges, resulting in a few passionate yells. At the rear of the venue, a girl loudly demanded that he keep on playing. “I just wanna give a very special thank you to the Bottom Lounge for letting us come out tonight, and a thank you to a new friend of ours.. Pete, get over here!”

There were some murmurs and giggles, with most people were craning their necks and squinting to see what was going on.

“Hey guys,” Pete greeted, sharing the microphone. “My name’s Pete and I wrote a couple of the songs you’re gonna hear tonight.”

“This modest dumbass also plays the bass, so give it up!” Patrick commanded, raising his hands to encourage the crowd.

The weak reaction was improved when Pete teased them with a random chord, bending at the middle and swishing his hair back and forth in a psuedo-headbanging motion. He straightened out and saw that he had earned several smiles and claps of approval. He gave a short salute and returned to his position on the right.

“We are Charnel House, and this first number’s a new one. It’s called ‘Growing Up’ and it’s pretty fuckin’ self-explanitory,” Patrick announced. The spotlights zeroed in, their abrupt heat daring him to do something impressive. This was it, their debut with a different line up that had the power to end or extend their fifteen minutes of fame. He turned to check that each of his bandmates were comfortable, offered the sound guy a thumbs up, and counted the beat aloud.

“One, two, one, two, three, four!”

Pete came in about two notes too early and threw off the first half of the song, though they scraped together a strong second verse and ending. It was a terrifying way to start off, especially when they were trying to sell the crowd and themselves on the idea of Pete.

The set wore on, another five songs following their opener. There were plenty of other mistakes along the way, there always were, and at one point Andy broke a drumstick. He tossed it off of the stage, a cluster of girls squealing and scrambling to claim it. This was of course outdone by Joe’s fingers bleeding during a guitar solo, his knees sliding against the polished stage floor as red flecks painted his fretboard and Nirvana t-shirt. These unplanned instances were jarring, yet they added to the kickass raw pop punk vibe they were going for. People eventually gave into the music and began to dance and mosh and push against the barricade. The space moved and breathed with the lively atmosphere that was unique to a Saturday night show in Chicago’s underbelly, the turn of the millennium behind them and the unknown ruling over the future to come. 

Beer cans and bras accumulated at their feet, and were kicked away when they became a tripping hazard. Nobody seemed to mind and, if anything, the kicks and casual attitude about it further energized the venue.

At the finale, security was forced to stand at the brink of the stage when there was an unprecedented amount of shoving. Patrick had stated that this was their last song, and was currently resting his chest on Pete’s nearest shoulder with his mouth against the microphone, his guitar held high in the air and its neck stroked with rough, erratic jerks. He normally interacted with Joe in a show, and he was thrilled to upgrade that to someone who was able to reciprocate both during and after their performance. Pete was perfectly content to be Patrick’s support - like, what are bass players for, right? - and he plucked out a soft melody while Patrick addressed the audience. 

“You freaks and geeks gotta settle down or else we can’t finish,” Patrick said, his voice echoing and turning heads. The scratchiness that came with playing two nights in a row was poking through, his words coarse, “Let’s go! Help me out here! We’re gonna close this bitch with what now..?”

“Fever Pitch!” a chorus chanted in response. It was their biggest single and was arguably their best song for ending a live set. 

“What is it? Huh?”

“FEVER PITCH!”

Patrick grinned, “Perfect. Pete’s gonna help me sing and he might throw a few new lines at you, but don’t be scared! He knows what he’s doing, I think. Here’s to hoping! Cheers, you bastards!”

With Andy counting them off on his cymbal, they exploded into their last song. The sharpness of their tuning had dropped dramatically, their cheeks an exhausted splotchy pink, and at least one of them had their shoelaces undone. Still, they held fast and punched through with pure adrenaline keeping their expressions fierce and bright. This was actually the most in synch with each other they had been in the entire night. They sounded good, as if they had this unspoken reason for playing their hearts out. They wanted to be there, wanted to prove to everyone that they deserved these spotlights. 

Maintaining their promise, Pete sang the backing vocals. They were different from Patrick’s lines, and much more aggressive, with Pete’s singing resembling more of a scream than _actual_ singing. The crowd was fairly receptive of what they heard, and even clamored toward Pete’s side of the stage whenever his parts would come in. The speakers above crackled with the harsh noise that managed to transform into beautiful music. Pete’s lyrics with Patrick’s voice was a delightfully unique combination, despite its bumps in its first performance. It was a stunning madness that no one could have seen happening more than twenty four hours ago. 

They concluded their set to an onslaught of applause and Patrick rushed to steady the microphone to say his goodbyes, his bandmates taking their bows, “We are Charnel House! We won’t stop unless you do! Thank you! Don’t drive drunk out there, ya hear? Thank you!”

He stepped away and grabbed Pete into a headlock. His arm was tight around Pete’s neck, dangerously on the verge of knocking skulls. They waved to everyone pushing into the barricade to get a better view. With a genuine relief, he whispered, “Thank you.”

Somewhere in the front row, a camera flashed.

\---

“Damn, your parents must be rich. Looks like you’re livin’ the life,” Pete commented, entering the Stump home and peering around. He kept his hands in his pockets, not wanting to touch anything inside. At least, not yet.

“I guess. Also, my parents are divorced, I told you that the other night after the show,” Patrick replied. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance and led Pete to the den, gesturing vaguely toward the various couches and armchairs.

“What? I’m supposed to remember what happened after the show? I can’t tell you much of what happened past my fifth beer.”

“Yeah, yeah..”

They were the only two people in the house, which was located in Glenview’s northernmost suburbs. It had a plain Americana type of style that was common for the area, with Patrick’s rusting 1988 Honda Accord making for an eyesore near the curb. Nothing interesting ever went on in this part of town, and Patrick enjoyed blaming that for how he chose to act out in his later teenaged years. If there wasn’t going to be even the smallest amount of excitement, then he was willing to venture into the world and find some. Joining the band, trying to con his way into bars, shooting off fireworks in parking lots, and bringing home boys he hardly knew were evidence of his search for excitement. And no one would ever suspect it if they stole a glance at his house, it was too unassuming. Just the way his mother wished for it to be.

Pete had plopped onto the loveseat and was shamelessly leering at his host’s backside from the window between the den and the kitchen. Content, he sank further into cushions, their crushed velveteen covers the same maroon color as the rug in the center of the room. His feet were kicked up against the coffee table, and he scooted forward to undo the laces of his tattered off-brand skater shoes.

Patrick exited the kitchen a moment later, two glasses of lemonade in hand that he had poured from a chilled pitcher in the fridge. The glasses were filled with ice and each one had its own straw. The lemonade’s sweet deliciousness was much needed on this hot August day, the temperature soaring to the nineties and above.

“Aww, lemonade for me?” Pete accepted the offered glass and moved to make room for Patrick on the loveseat. He was grateful, although he couldn’t help wanting to be silly about it, “You’re too kind.”

“Don’t get any ideas, my mom made this a couple of days ago for a barbeque.”

“Where is your mom, anyway?”

“Work? I don’t know, it’s Tuesday.”

Pete chuckled and went to sip on his drink. It was tastier than he could have hoped, the lemon’s bitterness balancing well with the added sugar. None of that premade powdered nonsense. He made a mental note to thank Mrs. Stump for the lemonade should he ever be blessed with the chance to meet her. Additionally, he would want to tell her about what a lovely son she had. Parents devoured those types of compliments. He would know. He lowered his glass and was surprised to see that Patrick hadn’t touched his own glass, and was instead staring directly at him.

“ ‘Course you know I didn’t invite you over because I wanted you to taste my mom’s lemonade,” Patrick said. He put a hand on Pete’s knee, the denim he touched oddly cool.

“Heh,” Pete beamed, “The phrase ‘Taste my mom’s lemonade’ sounds like an innuendo. Gross, Patrick.”

“Keep sweet talkin’ me, see what happens.”

Taking this as his signal, Pete set his glass on the coffee table and shifted to hold Patrick by the shoulders. His lungs fluttered with Patrick’s hand moving further up past his knee and kissed him, pushing hard and wanting to taste him. The perfect honeyed flavor he found didn’t disappoint. He soon had a mouthful of tongue and was climbing on top with his socked feet digging into the loveseat’s pillowy undersides. Patrick bucked beneath him and offered a charming little whine of approval. Fingers went into Pete’s shirt and groped the tanned hipbones without a hint of shyness. 

Pete knew part of Patrick’s appeal was his younger age combined with his talent within in the band, and he tried not to think too hard on that. Nor did he fuss too much over the fact that they had scarcely known each other for a weekend or so. There wasn’t an issue when they were both into this.

“Back pocket,” Patrick murmured, biting at Pete’s lower lip. He raised himself up slightly to allow for better access, and muffled a laugh at how badly Pete was fumbling. The pressure from his upward push made his cock tender with anticipation. “You need help?”

“I got it,” Pete answered. Indeed, after tossing out Patrick’s scratched Nokia, he had grabbed the bundle of condoms from the back pocket and dropped them on the floor. He had been expecting something like that, but, wow, not half a pack’s worth. Off that fact alone, it was fair game to assume that this was someone with a very strong amount of experience, or very little. He would be pleased with either.

Patrick was busy exploring the front of Pete’s jeans when he felt his own shirt being pushed aside. His self-consciousness over his belly gnawed at the edges of his mind, the visibility of his stretchmarks and moles causing him to hate how well-lit the den was. He hid these emotions by catching Pete in another kiss. Relief swept across him when his sloppiness was returned with the same level of intensity. 

“Do you wanna go--?” Pete’s question was lost as Patrick freed him of his shirt and shushed him.

“No, just fuck me right here,” Patrick snapped. His hot breath poured over Pete’s skin and he cupped him by the jaw, “I want you.”

It wasn’t the first time Patrick had the opportunity to mess around with such a fresh face. It was, however, the first time it carried such significance. Pete was part of his band now, part of his life, and he had proven his worth through the positive reception he had received at last weekend’s killer performance - he was here to stay. Whether or not Pete understood how painfully crucial he had become in the short time they had known each other, Patrick was determined to keep him close. He didn’t feel guilty about using sexual appeal to further entice Pete into sticking around. Besides, he was more attractive than any guy he had been with lately, and undoubtedly his type.

“What?” Patrick was pulled from his thoughts. Pete had been calling his name in a tone that suggested urgency. He forced his eyes open, momentarily distracted by the bare body above him, and repeated, “ _What_?”

“You phone’s ringing.” Pete pointed to the floor where his Nokia was buzzing and lighting up.

Patrick grabbed it and hit the green accept button without bothering to check who it was, “Hello?”

Joe’s voice appeared on the other end, “Hey, I drove by your house earlier and saw you were home. I went to get Andy and we’re on our way over.”

“Why? Joe, what the hell do you need to come over for?”

“Band stuff? There’s always something that needs to be done.”

Frantic, Patrick shoved Pete away and sat on his haunches, “Where are you guys right now?”

“I can basically see your street. We’ll be there in a minute.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Here,” Patrick barked, snagging and tossing Pete’s shirt into his face. Frantic, he sat upright and ran his hands through his mussed hair, attempting to flatten it. “Hurry, Joe said they’ll be here any second.”

“Wait, ‘they’? Joe and who else?” Pete pulled his shirt over his head and stood, cautiously glancing at the front door.

“Him and Andy.”

“Why are they coming over?”

“ _I don’t know_.”

Patrick shoved his phone and the condoms into his back pocket once again, hoisting his pants into a less saggy position. Quickly, he peered around the loveseat area for any remaining evidence of their previous intimate activities. He couldn’t find anything else that could expose them, and he even took the time to fluff the goddamn pillows. He decided that the lemonades could stay - they were innocent enough. Right?

His mind began to race, worried that the mere fact of Pete being here caused the whole scene to seem strange. What was he going to give for an explanation, anyway? Was there anything he could say to assure them that this wasn’t what they thought it was? Would they bother to ask at all?

Patrick lurched back to reality with a knock at the door. He looked at Pete, who shrugged, and they both prepared to act natural.

“Wassup,” Joe greeted, bouncing inside with a cardboard box carried in his arms. “It’s so hot outside, we should go swimming later-- Uhhh, Pete?”

Andy followed behind him, not speaking but appearing to have the same bewildered expression. This was certainly a shock. He folded his arms and waited.

“Hi guys,” Pete responded, his tone painstakingly manufactured to sound casual. His heels were propped on one end of the loveseat, his head resting on the other. He had taken one of Mrs. Stump’s issues of _People Magazine_ from the coffee table and was pretending to read it. Unfortunately for him, and unbeknownst to him, he was holding the magazine upside down. “Whatcha got in the box, Joe?”

“Some stuff, stuff for the band. Stickers and flyers, mostly.. Dude, what’re you doing here?”

“Patrick invited me over.”

Irked that the conversation had been flipped onto him, Patrick did his best to lie on the spot, “Yeah, I, he wanted to see my old bass. I figured he could use it for upcoming shows.”

“.. You mean your Fender Precision? The blue one?” Andy asked, now resting against the little end table that held the mail.

“Yup.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Joe cut in. He had set the box down in the middle of the entryway, walking toward Patrick. “You sold that thing last year! I remember, I had to drive you to the guy who bought it because you didn’t have your car yet. It was all the way out in Deerfield.”

“I guess,” Patrick muttered. Fuck. He was being cornered, figuratively and literally, the wall separating the den from the kitchen blocking any escape he could make by stepping backward. 

Joe’s suspicion increased when there was no proper reply, and he sprang, “So what, then? Why’s Pete here?”

“I can’t be here?” Pete fussed, failing miserably at not sounding defensive. He dropped the magazine and moved off of the loveseat.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Joe went on, “I just don’t get why Patrick’s lying to me right now? What’s the deal?”

“Nothing. We were going over lyrics, that’s all,” Patrick told him, still refusing to tell the truth.

“Why’d you lie about the bass, then?”

“Man, it doesn’t matter,” Andy said. He put a hand on Joe’s shoulder, and was immediately pushed back. Knowing he couldn’t stop the oncoming temper tantrum, he lowered his hands and sighed. 

The room went still. Everyone was scowling at someone else, and nobody wanted to give in.

“All right, fine. No, I wasn’t showing him the bass because I don’t have it anymore. But I swear we were going over lyrics. I didn’t want to tell you because I know you think we should do that as a group,” Patrick falsely confessed. It was annoying how close Joe was getting to him. The several inches he had on him in height required him to raise his head, which he despised. He wished he could tell him to back off, but he knew that would only make him the more aggressive one for no reason.

Joe scoffed, “I don’t _think_ we need to do it as a group. I _know_ we need to do it as a group. You have to do that shit together because it’s a band. My band.”

“You don’t need to bitch about it, I get it.”

“Who’s bitching!?”

“Knock it off,” Pete snapped, moving to be at Patrick’s side. Being the newcomer, he had no idea whether or not what he was witnessing was normal behavior for the group. Regardless, he didn’t want to take any risks and was ready to tear the two of them apart if this escalated further. He put his hands at his sides, waiting. 

Joe ignored Pete’s warning, pointed at him like he was a misbehaving child, and continued to tear into Patrick, “He’s been around for less than a week and suddenly he has priority over us? I don’t care how ‘good’ his lyrics are, I don’t like it.”

“Oh, please, I know you don’t care how good the lyrics are. You’ll play anything with a stupid guitar solo,” Patrick said.

“Wow, really? Tell me I don’t care about my music again. Do it.”

“Nah.”

Fuming, Joe snatched the Patrick by the collar of his shirt and yanked him close. He opened his mouth to scream about how much of an idiot the other boy was being when he stopped cold. Stuck to the side of Patrick’s neck was a few stray black hairs. Black hairs that were strikingly familiar. His mouth twisted shut in horror. No way. He processed this information in a split-second, and, without another thought, heaved Patrick away from him with the grip he had. He couldn’t believe this.

The force sent Patrick toppling into Pete, who awkwardly caught him against his chest. They separated themselves and meekly listened to the oncoming tirade. 

“Yeah? I should’ve known about you two,” Joe spat. He made a ‘Hmph’ noise and glanced over at Andy. “Should. Have. Known.”

“What do you mean?” Andy was relieved that Joe hadn’t taken a swing, and was now closer to the group. His arms were slightly raised, bracing himself to restrain anyone who lashed out.

“They’re fuck buddies,” Joe replied.

“Okay..? Are you?” Andy wondered. It was such a weird topic to transition into, and he felt like a parent grilling their child about a disappointing relationship. It was extra terrible because while he didn’t want to know more, he knew he had to in order to help keep the peace.

“We’re not together,” Patrick insisted, his flustered demeanor betraying him. “I swear.”

“You’re such a liar, holy shit, I can see it in your face! You were hanging all over him at the show last weekend, and today you’re screwing around with him!” Joe shouted, his anger causing his fists to clench. 

Pete’s own voice began to amplify, and he shook his head, “You’ve got it all wrong. We weren’t doing anything!”

“Shut it! I’m not talking to you, dude, seriously, this isn’t your fight. Stay out of this,” Joe said. He made eye contact with Patrick, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “This is how you’re acting? Trying to get laid when you should be focusing on our work? You’ve really out-slutted yourself this time, Patrick.”

“Cool. Fuck you.”

“I’d say ‘Fuck you’ back, but you’ve already got Pete doing that for you.”

“GET OUT!”

Patrick’s ferocious yell echoed throughout the house and he pushed past Joe and Andy, a swift kick delivered to the box that had been brought inside. Vinyl stickers of the band’s logo and flimsy flyers of their next couple of shows flew into the air. Everything fell and spread in a messy pile that covered a hefty portion of the den. The box worsened the damage by hitting a nearby potted fern and knocking it to the floor. Someone gasped, followed by a brief pause of quiet astonishment.

“Leave, everyone,” Patrick ordered, a finger jabbed toward the front door, “just go. I’m done.”

Surprisingly, Pete was the first to leave. 

\---

Patrick sealed himself away in his bedroom for the next two days. He survived on stale pretzels and flat soda, strumming on his guitar or playing his Game Boy when he wasn’t aimlessly staring out the window. It was a waste to spend his summer this way, but he couldn’t muster up any genuine feelings to care. He was numb after the fight with Joe. Their friendship, their band was important to him, he wasn’t happy with the insults they had flung at each other or the punches they had been willing to exchange. It was a bunch of bullshit that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. 

Who was he supposed to blame? Pete?

He was still attracted to Pete, still wanted Pete in the band. But he would be lying if he said things were perfectly normal between them. In fact, they hadn’t spoken since he had ordered everyone out of his house. He had Pete’s number, and every time he thought about texting him, he would chicken out and throw his phone under his pillow. A small part of him hoped that Pete would text him first, or even message him on AIM, and he was disheartened for each hour that went by where that didn’t happen. 

He felt so stupid.

Patrick eventually rolled out of his bedroom and into the bathroom for a shower. By the time he had finished, the afternoon sun had set and the sky had turned completely dark. He dressed in a clean set of pajamas and left the bathroom a steamy mess. He faintly heard his mother complain about how he should come eat the dinner she made and how he shouldn’t use all the hot water. Blah, blah, blah, it didn’t matter to him. Rudely, he waved her off over his shoulder.

Lying on his bed once again, this time with a towel over his hair, he exhaled theatrically and contemplated what he should do next. Chores, downloading music, watching television, masturbation.. Nothing stood out to him as something he actually wanted to do. His cloudy mood refused to lift. 

There was a soft crackling sound at the window, and, without his conscious mind even acknowledging it, he knew it was the house deflating for the night after being pounded by the heat all day. It was normal. At least, it was until he heard the same sound repeated at a higher volume. He sat up, the towel falling away from his head, and blinked in the direction of the window. He waited.

A pebble came flying into his line of sight, tapping the window pane’s glass.

“Huh?” Patrick could have sworn he saw something hit the window, and he nearly jumped when it turned out that, yes, he had. Another pebble was launched against the glass. He frowned, standing and moving to undo the latch. He waved and stuck his head out into the breeze, calling, “The fuck is going on?”

“Whew, there you are,” Pete’s voice came up from somewhere on the front lawn. His dark hair and clothing made him difficult to makeout in the weak moonlight, his grin the only part of him that was fully visible. “Hi. Wanna hang?”

Startled, and definitely flattered, Patrick said, “Yeah, right. I’ll just let you in the front door so you can piss off my mom. She’d hate you.”

That wasn’t entirely untrue. His mother had a history of disapproving of the boys he brought home, specifically the older, punkass type.

“Drop down here, then.”

“No.”

“Please, Patrick?”

Patrick put his right palm beneath his chin, savoring this strange moment. It was nice to tower over Pete and to hear him plead for something so ridiculous. Maybe that was the point? If he was being buttered up here, he didn’t mind. He gestured toward the side of the house, his movements languid, “Hm.. We have any ivy patch over there. It has a wooden grate behind it that I’m sure you could climb.”

“Are you for real?” Pete had edged closer to the house, now directly below the window and visible from the den. Luckily, the curtains were shut.

“Yup.”

“Okay. Are you gonna help pull me up?”

“Eh, fine.”

Pete, or rather, the shadowy blob that looked like Pete, hustled to the side of the house. He found a bit decent bit of footing and began to climb. This was the third or fourth time he had ever needed to weasel his way onto someone’s roof, although that didn’t make the task much better. His upper body strength wasn’t his finest asset. When he finally hauled himself onto the scratchy tiles of the roof, he was panting. A second later, he groaned at the realization that he wasn’t exactly where he should be. He was at the corner of the roof with Patrick’s window a dozen feet to the left. He was going to have to crawl to reach his end goal.

Patrick had wiggled out onto window’s ledge in order to perfectly enjoy this valiant display of romance. Or whatever this was. The ledge was wide and sturdy enough to give him plenty of room, with a secondary ledge underneath it to balance his bare toes on. He settled in and joked, “Having trouble?”

“You kidding? I’m all sunshine and daisies,” Pete huffed. He wavered, checking the fall distance between the roof and the ground while he clung to the tiles. “Seriously though, don’t you have a way to make this easier? Can’t you throw me a line of sheets? They do it movies and stuff.”

“Too bad this isn’t a movie.” 

Continuing on his mission, Pete scrambled and stretched until he was within reach. He squeezed himself onto the window’s ledge with a grunt and a heave from Patrick’s nearest hand. As soon as he was stabilized, he snaked his arms around Patrick and nuzzled their cheeks. He was elbowed aside before he could do much damage.

“You’re right about this not being a movie. If it was, you would be a cute girl.” Pete covered his mouth to muffle the oncoming giggles, and shirked away from the swat aimed for his crotch.

Patrick chided him, “Dick. I shouldn’t have let you up.”

“Aww, I’m hurt.”

“Like I care, Pete.”

“Ouch.”

“You smell weird,” Patrick said plainly. He scooted closer and took a second whiff. 

“Thanks, it’s called deodorant. I had to borrow my sister’s since mine ran out,” Pete informed him, crossing his arms.

“Sure, you definitely don’t use women’s deodorant on a regular basis, yeah, I got it. Who’s the girl now?”

“It’s like mango scented, it’s not too crazy for a guy.”

Patrick moved to brush his nose around Pete’s throat and chest, the area slightly exposed due to his deeply cut v-neck. He lingered longer than he needed to, and ultimately ended up resting his head on Pete’s shoulder, their fingers playfully locking and unlocking. It was a small comfort that they guiltily indulged in. It cleared their minds. However, there wasn’t a great way to transition into what they had to talk about, and Patrick dove right into it, “Our band sucks.”

“It’s,” Pete struggled to find a meaningful sentence, “it’s going through a transition. There’s bound to be a few problems. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Patrick said. “I can’t blame you.”

“Joe can.”

“Yeah..”

Patrick adjusted his position, his spine straight against the interior window frame to better face the older boy, “Were you ever in any bands before us?”

“Ah, yeah, I was. They didn’t work out,” Pete admitted. He rubbed his nose for a nonexistent itch, his mind involuntarily returning to scattered memories of late high school and early college. “I know it’s such a typical excuse, but we broke up over creative differences.”

“That’s rough.”

“It’s no big deal. If I hadn’t broken up with them, I wouldn’t have been able to join this band.”

Patrick nodded.

“We’re still a band, aren’t we?” Pete ventured, scooting forward by a few inches.

“Well, I mean, no one has told me that we aren’t. Not yet, anyway,” Patrick responded.

“That’s good.”

They sat in silence. It was a difficult, unwelcomed lull that they didn’t know how to break. A motorcycle purred past them on the street, and somewhere above them a flock of crows cried in a disorganized harmony. They relaxed, consoled by the noise. There wasn’t anybody keeping them company on the street, save for the occasional pair of crickets. Most people were nestled into their homes, hiding from the heat, and dreading having to leave for work in the morning. Cars were parked in driveways and bikes were chained to lamp posts, the metal hoping to temper in the daylight’s absence. The neighborhood was decompressing, and they desperately wished to do the same.

If Charnel House was going to survive, they were going to have to figure out their relationship dynamic. They were on the cusp of glory, and their fragile structure couldn’t take more stress without refortifying their foundations.

Pete decided to speak up, “Should we, ya know, keep ourselves on the down low? Or maybe, and don’t take this the wrong way, not be together at all?”

“We shouldn’t have to. It’s not my problem if Joe and whoever else is going to be immature about us,” Patrick grumbled.

“It can make things worse for us, though. The band could collapse on itself if we’re fighting like this,” Pete said gently. 

“No. I want to be selfish.”

“Hah, well, at least you’re admitting it. That’s brave of you.”

Patrick went to clasp his palms over Pete’s thighs, moving in for a kiss and saying, “C’mere.”

As they touched, their worries about the band were placed on the backburner. They couldn’t see past their physical need for one another.

Pete returned the affection, pawing at Patrick’s pajama top to find a firm grip. Realizing that they were perched outside for any passersby to notice, his gut did an excited flip. He enjoyed how bold the situation was, and it sparked his desire to take it further. He pushed his tongue past those pretty pink lips and pulled Patrick as close as he could within their makeshift seating arrangement. His efforts were rewarded with a gorgeous whimper, and felt hands migrating to rest on his lower back, beneath the hem of his shirt. He began to move his own hands and hurriedly traced them to pants in front of him. The depth of their kiss grew, and he popped open the belt buckle.

“Mmph, wait,” Patrick pulled away, wary of being spotted, “We can go in my room.”

“How about I go in your room? You can stay out here,” Pete said, his raised eyebrows implying mischief.

“What d’you mean?”

“Lemme show you.”

Sliding past the window pane, Pete dropped to his knees and beckoned for the shorter boy to swing his legs inside the bedroom and have his back to the outside world. From there, he finished undoing Patrick’s belt and pants. He centered himself and took ahold of Patrick’s expectant cock, freshly exposed from tip to base. He warmed the delicate skin with his breath, his right hand stroking across the underside. 

“You gonna suck me off?” Patrick’s legs were bashfully pushed together, he couldn’t help but check the street over his shoulder.

Pete was already gliding his tongue over the head, loving how he could practically taste him getting harder, “That’s the plan. And if you promise not to pull on my hair, I’ll swallow for you, too.”

“I can do that.”

“Good,” Pete snickered. He took Patrick’s cock with his lips puckering tightly, and guided the entire length into his mouth. Not that it was short and manageable to do so, he purely wanted to provide a pleasurable shock to the system. Almost instantly, he knew he had succeeded.

“ _Ooh_ ,” Patrick sang, his legs buckling, “Pete, you’re, _ooh_.”

Pete didn’t respond and instead fixed his head in a mellow bouncing motion. He held Patrick by the hips and focused on timing his thrusts with how he moved his tongue. Funnily enough, this was much less difficult to coordinate than their first band practice. A minute later, he was being rhythmically throat-fucked and drawing in air through his nose, his lips having formed a strong seal. His knees had slipped and spread on the hardwood floor, causing his ass to arch upward. It was a vulnerable position that he disliked, and, regrettably, he was unable to correct it. He maintained his posture like a champ, and didn’t once break the flow of the action.

Patrick was ecstatic over this blowjob. The previous opportunities he had to get his dick sucked resulted in an overall sense of shame or worry that consumed the tiny flares of enjoyment. This, in contrast, was genuinely one of the best sexual experiences he had ever taken part in. His brain was turning to mush in the best kind of way. He didn’t know if it had to do with Pete’s allure or his skill, or both, he only knew that he wanted more of it. His fingernails twitched on the window’s ledge, digging into the painted wood. 

Diligently, Pete worked that cock with a variety of licks and tugs and suction. He gulped down the accumulating saliva and precum, with a couple of stray drops falling onto Patrick’s pajama bottoms. His eyes flickered upward every so often, and each time he was greeted with the sight of those euphoric features. It was quite the compliment, and it encouraged him to push through the pain of his sore jaw. Patrick’s thickness had demanded that his mouth open wider than usual, and the accompanying muscles were effectively becoming exhausted. He pressed on.

“H-Hang on,” Patrick interrupted. He nudged Pete backward and held his own trembling erection with one hand, willing his body not to explode. It seemed impossible, his nerves firing off too many blissful jolts to his system. His hold stiffened and he threw his head to one side, shuddering, “Shit, I can’t, I..!”

Pete jumped back on the tip, and accepted the oncoming pulse of Patrick’s orgasm. He mouth stayed attached up to the very last squirt. He swallowed hard, lips smacking.

Patrick’s head had reclined out toward the sky, and a sprinkling of stars twirled across his vision.


	4. Chapter 4

Patrick was exhausted after wasting most of his Thursday searching for Joe. Obviously, Joe wasn’t taking any calls or text messages, which pushed him to have to actually _look_ for him. He had tried the Trohman residence, the mall, the local Taco Bell, and even the bookstore where they had first run into each other. No dice. His defeat brought him to a slump on a curb on the outskirts of his own neighborhood. He kicked at the asphalt and turned toward the treeline across the street. The branches were wilted and a faint shade of green from the summer heat, causing the area to appear unkempt and unappealing. Above the trees, and perhaps more of an eyesore, was a billboard that held a gaudy advertisement for a local grocery store chain, Aldi’s. Their slogan proclaimed that they had the best deals on grilling products to get the job done.

Summer. Grocery store. Job.

He smacked his forehead and realization. 

A few short months ago, Joe had announced to Patrick and Andy that he had taken up a summer job at Aldi’s. He was a shelf-stocker and only worked Tuesdays and Thursdays from morning to afternoon. He had claimed that his parents had pushed him to join the workforce and that he hated it, however, he always seemed to have a fun time bragging about how much more income he had than them. If anything, it had been good for the band when it came to expenses, with the majority of the guitar repairs and supplies paid for by Joe. 

Hopeful that he had remembered the correct location, Patrick hopped in his Honda and sped off toward the Aldi’s closest to Joe’s house. He arrived at a few minutes past three, and worried that he may be too late. He sloppily parked his car and rushed to the store’s front doors. The rubber mats at the entrance nearly tripped him flat on his face, and, with a fairly graceless recovery, he was soon scrambling through the aisles hunting for Joe. Behaving himself, he opened the doors in the ice cream aisle no more than twice, the chilled blasts a welcomed sensation.

When Patrick found him, he was met with a snort of distaste and a purposefully loud slamming of a crate on the floor. Joe stood there, raising his hackles with his Aldi’s employee apron doing him approximately zero favors for how intimidating he appeared.

“.. What? You just planning on standing there?” Joe stepped forward to push his crate closer to the waiting shelf of canned goods. 

“No,” Patrick said, his hands behind his back and his demeanor sheepish, “I, uhm, I’m glad I found you. I wanted to talk to you, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

“Mmhm,” Joe hummed, pretending to be extremely interested in how he needed to stack his inventory. He was no longer facing Patrick, his head dipped down.

“Look, I don’t wanna make you mad--”

“Hah! You already screwed up, then.”

“Joe, c’mon,” Patrick kept himself calm, momentarily biting the inside of his cheek, “I want to say I’m sorry. I should’ve told you about Pete and me. I didn’t think about it. Everything happened super fast. We’re not.. not a couple, we’re nothing to worry about, seriously. Still, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you and Andy.”

Joe didn’t want to give into this explanation so easily, especially since his anger continued to flare at the back of his mind, “It doesn’t matter if you guys are a couple or not. Now that you’re getting with Pete, you’re never going to want to listen to anybody else in the band. You guys will team up.”

“Like..?”

“Don't play dumb. The lyrics and melodies and our stage presence - all that will be pushed toward what you guys want, not what the band wants.”

Patrick brought his hands forward, fingers fiddling and wishing he knew how to respond. It was tough to listen to Joe, who was typically chill and upbeat, speak in such an aggressive way. Plus, he knew that he was right. For the most part, he figured. There wasn’t much he could scrounge for a defense. Besides, he was positive that Joe would appreciate him not running his mouth for once.

Joe was ranting as he jammed the canned goods into their correct spots, “You really think we can just magically get along with two members being lovey-dovey on the side? I can totally picture you supporting a bad idea from Pete and vice versa just ‘cause you guys are together. And what are our fans gonna think? What if they find out and decide to be homophobic about it?”

“Yeah,” Patrick agreed halfheartedly. He was wringing his wrists, his knuckles bone white.

“Which reminds me,” Joe went on, sliding his crate to the next set of shelves, “there’s a pic of you two being passed around the comments of our Myspace page, it must’ve been taken last weekend. You’re glued to each other and everyone who’s seen it has something to say about it. Jesus, we’ve barely had that page for a few months! It’s supposed to be for our music, not stupid rumors!”

Joe hadn’t meant to raise his volume. He cleared his throat, giving a courteous smile to a passing mother and toddler. Ugh. Being on the clock limited how much he could verbally attack Patrick, and he was dying to go for it. What a shame they hadn’t had this little confrontation in the parking lot.

“Is it that bad?” Patrick asked softly. He hadn’t been on the band’s Myspace page since they had created it last spring, and he felt terrible knowing that Joe had been busy moderating and updating it without help or gratitude. 

“Go see for yourself,” Joe said dismissively. He shook his head, irritated.

Patrick inched closer, “Can’t you take it down? And keep other people from seeing it?”

“No, that would look bad. Fans don’t like it when you ‘randomly’ delete their photos and threads.”

“Right..”

Joe hated this. They were going nowhere fast, and he wasn’t off the clock for another half hour. He would tear his hair out if he had to deal with this for much longer. As smug as he was about having Patrick come crawling to him for forgiveness, he knew they had to settle on a solution. Otherwise, they could say goodbye to Charnel House. He shifted to be exactly opposite of Patrick and folded his arms.

Patrick went first, “Joe, I swear to you, me and Pete won’t dick around on stage anymore. We won’t PDA around you guys, either. We’ll behave. Swear.”

“Hey, I believe you,” Joe admitted, his sullen expression lifting, “but there’s one problem.”

“What?”

“The fans, at least, from what I’ve seen online, they are really into the idea of you and Pete together.”

“They, they are?”

Joe squirmed a bit, not too excited to elaborate, “Don't play dumb. You and Pete are.. bleh.. _good looking_. The fans, the girls, they love that. Two good looking guys playing awesome music while they act like they’re an item? Think about it.”

“I, well, okay, it makes sense. So what do we do?” Patrick rolled his shoulders, uncertain.

“.. Maybe we shouldn’t cover it up? I know it’s weird and that there’s a risk of some people being homophobes about it, but I don’t want those people coming to our shows, anyway,” Joe hissed, wary of the nature of their conversation. He couldn’t be too loud. A elderly man passed them with a shopping cart and he motioned Patrick forward.

“We can try it?” Patrick wondered, hushed and minimizing the space that divided them. They were separated by the crate of canned goods, empty and idly eavesdropping. “Pete would be open to it, I’m betting. He loves that onstage attention.”

“Yeah, although, let’s keep it to a minimum. What you guys were doing before should be fine,” Joe said. 

“We can do that. But what about the rumors online?”

“I’ll handle it. We’ll keep it ambiguous.”

“Cool, thanks,” Patrick replied, finally deciding that he should put out his hand for a peace offering. When Joe accepted and shook it with his own hand, he visibly perked up, “We can make this work.”

“I think so, too. Just don’t start making out in the middle of the set, no one wants to see that.”

“Someone probably wants to see it.”

“Sure, Patrick.”

\---

“Don’t make me regret this,” Patrick threatened. Despite being in no position to be making threats, he went on, “If you don’t know what you’re doing, I’ll call you out. And I won’t be nice about it.”

“That would just make my day,” Pete said, bringing up his head and wiping his mouth. He smiled, though Patrick couldn’t see it.

“I’m serious.”

“I am, too. It gets me going when you act feisty.”

Patrick pursed his lips, “What act? Everything here is the real deal.”

Pete laughed. It wasn’t to make fun of or belittle Patrick, no, it was simply a happy outburst that he couldn’t hold back. Their back and forth banter was his new favorite thing, and the uncomplicated flow reminded him of their music when their talents were combined. He craved Patrick’s company, and, the more time they spent together, the more he understood how hilariously different they were. Yet they got along effortlessly. Their disagreements were minimal and were usually resolved through physical contact when they were alone. There were no arguments, only spoken foreplay. It was a relationship that was blossoming faster than either could truly manage. There was no going back to any semblance of friendship for the sake of the band or otherwise.

“If you keep talking, I’ll never get you to relax. That’s no fair to me,” Pete complained gently.

“Fuck, I can’t help it,” Patrick said. His nostrils rounded as he pushed out a thick breath, his lower half wincing.

On Pete’s mattress, in the corner of his messy bedroom, they were splayed out across the sheets. Patrick was naked from the waist down, and Pete from the waist up. For the better part of the past hour, Pete had been tonguing and caressing and fingering Patrick’s ass. They had previously discussed swimming at the community pool, and quickly had that plan fall through when they arrived and saw how jam-packed the place was. They had also discovered a hole in the backside of Patrick’s singular pair of swim trunks that kept him from wanting to prance around in public. With too many jabs at Patrick about the hole, one thing led to another, and they found themselves drowning among innuendos. Their appetite for an afternoon escaping the heat turned sexual, and they rushed to find somewhere to strip and blast the air conditioning. With it being Saturday, Patrick’s house was unavailable due to his mother having the weekend off, and they wound up at Pete’s parent’s house for their change of plans. The parents weren’t home, apparently indulging in a neighborhood barbeque. 

“Ahhh..!” Patrick moaned, his grip writhing against the pillow and his thighs twitching to snap shut. He felt Pete refuse his actions, keeping his legs open and vulnerable with a push. His shyness was inevitable, unable to be rationalized by how thoroughly he had cleaned this morning. There was a wet lick between his cheeks and he strained to contain himself, “Pete, you’re, it’s too much..!”

“Are you,” Pete paused, one finger feathering over the healthy folds of chub that were included in his meal, “are you ready, then? ‘Cause I am. You’ve got me so hard right now, you have no idea.”

“Like I don’t know. You’ve been poking my leg this whole time.”

“My bad.”

Pete relented and moved off of Patrick. He stood and hurried to the drawer of his nightstand, which, for some reason, was unreachable from his bed. A half-empty bottle of lube was tossed over along with an unopened pack of condoms. 

“Uh huh,” Patrick acknowledged the items and attempted to sit up. When his shaky knees told him differently, and he dropped the notion entirely. With his head lazing backward, he noticed the shelf above Pete’s bed. The various soccer-related awards stole his attention, watching him. He examined each one slowly, and didn’t avert his gaze until a sparkle of sunlight caught the edge of a trophy and blinded him. He squinted, asking, “Can you close the door?”

“Why? No one’s home,” Pete replied. He had undone the knot that held his board shorts on his hips, and was preparing to shimmy free of them. “Don’t worry, they won’t be back for hours.”

“Please, douche bag?”

“Okay, sheesh.”

Pete shut the door, took the extra step to lock it, and sarcastically bowed. From where he was standing, he could see out the window and into his neighbor's backyard. Interested, he went to peer beyond the glass, the bottom latch slightly ajar. His board shorts continued to cling to his body, stopping well below his navel and displaying a streak of curly black hair.

“What’re you doin’?” Patrick was confused, craning his neck for a view of what was going on.

“Nothing,” Pete said, the inflection somehow misplaced. “I didn’t know my parents were here..”

“Wait, what!?” 

“Like, they’re at a barbeque nextdoor, with the Wilstrums. I thought they were down the street.”

“Oh, fuck, thank goodness, you scared me for a second.”

Pete spun on his heel and headed toward the bed, regathering the lube and condoms. With everything soon tucked into the crook of his elbow, he snatched Patrick’s wrist and pulled. He was hit with a wall of defiance and a fussy yelp, to which he ordered, “Come look out the window with me. It’s a nice day.”

“No, you weirdo,” Patrick was startled by the abrupt demand for him to get up, “what’s with you? Don’t tell me you have a window fetish or something.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“Are you high? _What are you talking about_?”

Pete hauled Patrick to his feet and knocked the sheets from his hands when he went to cover himself. They grunted and pushed their way into a strange embrace, dancing viciously across the carpet. Pete’s strength brought Patrick to submission in under a minute, and they arrived at the window. Patrick’s forehead was smushed against the glass with Pete behind him, holding him firm. The commotion from the Wilstrum’s family barbeque was carried to their ears, blurring their thoughts.

“See? It’s a nice day,” Pete said, his words melting sweetly. He set the lube and condoms down on the window sill, confident that they would be unidentifiable at a distance. Both hands went to rest on the sides of Patrick’s thighs.

“I,” Patrick faltered, his legs still fragile, “I don’t..?”

Patrick was inconspicuous with his shirt keeping him modest for unsuspecting barbeque guests who might catch a glimpse of him. While that worry subsided, a thousand others burst to life inside his mind. He froze. Dismayed, he realized that he wouldn’t be allowed to dwell, Pete’s board shorts slipping and releasing his warm cock. The tip pressed to Patrick’s tailbone.

“You were _so_ good earlier,” Pete murmured. He kissed a blushing collarbone.

“Wh-What d’you mean?” Patrick gulped, a hot urge welling up in his gut and coaxing him to wiggle his backside against Pete’s cock.

Pete delighted in the response, “You know. You were putty and you loved it. You tasted amazing, and you were softer than I ever could have imagined. Your ass is perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna fuck you just right.”

“And we’re seriously doing this in front of a window?” Patrick inspected the scenery below, and had his heart pound when a woman pointed at the sky to show her husband a passing plane. His skittish mentality had him expecting her to catch them and call them out. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I may be holding you here, but you can walk away whenever you want. We don’t have to do this,” Pete promised. He waited, planting more kisses near the shorter boy’s jawline. 

Patrick savored in the affection, and glided his left hand down to his own budding erection. He squeezed the tender area, blood swelling anywhere he touched. His right hand went to tear a condom from the pack and then to snatch the lube, passing them backward to Pete. He fixed his ass to be at a more accessible angle, and increased the speed of his squeezing.

“Patrick, I need you to say it,” Pete prompted, though he was already ripping the wrapper and sliding the protection over his cock. The ring of latex at the base was plucked to check for a seal before going further. He took the lube and globbed it directly onto the tip, smearing it lengthwise. 

“ ‘Kay,” Patrick hesitated, sucking in his lower lip and nervously checking on the unaware barbeque below, “Fuck me good. Make me cum.”

Whispering something inaudible, Pete gingerly thurst forward into Patrick. There was a bit of resistance since all the stretching had been done earlier, and he slowed his movements to compensate. The pinched, wet heat made this an issue for him, his instincts telling him to chase the oncoming ripples of pleasure by pumping without giving a fuck. Crushing his brows together, he focused and maintained his gentle pace. But he couldn’t control his moans.

“Damn, you feel fantastic,” Pete adjusted himself to elevate his hips, fully pushing his cock inside with his stomach resting on Patrick’s lower back, “you sure you’re not a virgin? I woulda given anything to have you for your first time.”

“Uhn,” Patrick gasped, clutching the window sill for stability, “I think you’re, uhn, my fifth. Don’t feel too special.”

“I do, believe me.”

Patrick arched, sweat crowning his hairline and dampening his shirt. He was relieved that Pete was gradually entering him with his thrusts on the more subtle side. It gave him time to acclimate and, when he was ready, he rode Pete with his ass bouncing from base to tip. It was doable since Pete wasn’t overly girthy and because he knew how to guide his lover without causing pain. He bucked enthusiastically when he sensed Pete’s hands holding him by the shoulders, with one of his own hands returning to touch himself. He was so stiff, the head of his cock was aimed straight at the ceiling. A shaky, sensual cry made his mouth go slack.

“Naughty,” Pete complimented, lube trickling into the board shorts that stayed stuck at his knees, “You think all those people know, mm, how naughty you are? Look at you, you’re a work of art on display.”

Patrick uttered a gruff chuckle, “Whatever you say. Can you just-- No, move it-- _Yes_ , right there.”

There was a sweet spot that Patrick was wonderfully familiar with, and was a goner once it was found. He subconsciously clenched his backside and bit his lip. 

Pete was getting into the swing of things, and where he normally tried to peek at how his dick looked going in and out, he was instead admiring what a catch he had. He tightened his grasp on Patrick’s shoulders. It was criminal how exquisite the younger boy was in the rosy afternoon light, the sounds of the barbeque floating up to scold them for their devious behavior so close to a family event. What a couple of freaks they were. Just awful, a plague to society that nothing of redemption beyond a few forgettable pop punk songs. A heightened throb of bliss overtook him, and he had to steady his thrusts to keep from blowing his load too soon.

With his eyes inevitably on the people dotting the backyard, Patrick stared at them while tugging his cock. He chose to concentrate on a teenage couple that couldn’t stop fondling one another. He saw them swap saliva and cop a feel and when (they assumed) no one was watching. It was simultaneously a nauseating and satisfying sight. They zipped around the grass, weaving through picnic tables piled high with ribs and coleslaw. The girl’s strappy bikini top scantily suppressed how much her tits could jiggle, and her boyfriend’s cut abdominal muscles glistened with the sheen of sunscreen. They pranced beneath the shade of a nearby maple tree, and locked their lips, mouthing what were probably fake promises about their future. When they pulled apart, they had visibly brightened. Unexpectedly, they turned toward the window.

“Fuck,” Patrick squirmed, his head falling to face the floor. The fist he had made was flexing around his cock, his pink flesh aching and swollen. The work Pete had done earlier was taking a toll on him, his body weak from the intimate touches. He worried that the couple would be observing him with disgust if he dared to raise his head again, and he chose not to take the risk. It didn’t matter much, no, he was too far gone at this point. His sole concern was his dick in his hand and the dick that was fucking him. “I need..!”

“Hang in there for me,” Pete growled, having resumed his thrusts. “Patrick!”

“I c-can’t,” Patrick mewled pathetically, the smothered release splashing onto his hand. His posture crumpled and he struggled to keep his hold on the window sill. Cum overflowed in his fist, stray droplets spattering the carpet and misplaced laundry at his feet. It was a mess, and he would have been ripe with embarrassment if he wasn’t consumed with ecstasy. 

“Don’t move,” Pete said, preparing to catch Patrick in case he couldn’t stand, “don’t move, you’re perfect. Fucking perfect.”

With no reply and without collapsing, Pete assumed that he was in the clear. He also did a double check on their little neighborhood gathering, thrilled by their obliviousness. His cock was stressing for more attention, and he plowed onward. The sinfully sumptuous intensity was unbelievable. In fact, it was so unbelievable, he suspected that the condom was bunching up somewhere near the middle of his shaft. This caused the lower part of his shaft to be raw inside Patrick, seducing him into silence. He didn’t bother messing with or mentioning it. He wasn’t a total jerk, though, he would stop if the condom came off completely. When another round of thrusts proved that it wasn’t going anywhere, he gladly pursued his climax. He scratched his nails into Patrick’s skin and passionately called his name.

Patrick, who was beginning to feel sore, encouraged Pete to hustle up and finish, “Cum in me, c’mon, I want it. Do it!”

“Oh, h-hell yes, I’m gonna give it to you!” Pete shivered, electric tingles sparking his system. He hunched forward, hair masking his face and becoming rigid. “You’re so tight, goddamn!”

“Pete, cum!”

“I’m,” Pete failed to finish his sentence as his orgasm gushed forth, spilling and overwhelming him. He groaned and incoherently praised his partner, both arms wrapping around that pudgy belly. One cheek pressed to the back of Patrick’s neck and he took a breather before pulling away. He untangled them and removed the condom, not wanting it to loosen and hit the floor. With his free hand, he nudged Patrick.

“I’m fine,” Patrick said, descending from his trance. “That was insane, I can’t get my mind to relax.”

“Same here. We should go for round two in a couple hours,” Pete said, half-serious.

“Let’s get a snack first. I’m starving.”

\---

Within the week, the band was going strong again and their fanbase was none the wiser. Andy had snagged them a gig at an enormous house party, Joe supported the mysterious romance rumors online with cheeky comments, and Pete and Patrick tried not to be too obvious about what they had been up to. Their arrangements were simple and didn’t require too many heart-to-hearts. They were content to leave it at that. 

At the house party gig, they were largely ignored prior to their appearance on stage. A stage which, obnoxiously, was a makeshift platform of wooden scraps in the backyard. No one assisted them with the setup, and they had to beg for bottles of water from the hosts. It was shitty, but the exposure and pay were decent. They waited to be introduced, huddled with their instruments in the grass.

“How do you know these people, Andy?” Joe tilted his weight on the side of the stage, impatiently plucking his guitar strings.

“I don’t know them that well,” Andy revealed, “I know the host's younger brother. He told me that we’d be a great fit for this party.”

“Where is he, then?”

“.. I saw him passed out on a couch when we came in.”

Aggravated, Joe began to fidget, “Was he supposed to pay us? Who’s gonna pay us now?”

“I’m sure he’ll wake up after we start playing. He better,” Andy said, uncrossing his legs and frowning. 

“God, we’re screwed.”

“It’ll work out, let’s play first and see how it goes.”

“Lameee.”

“You’re such a baby,” Andy chastised, waving a drumstick in Joe’s face, “You need to learn to be patient. Life doesn’t just bend to your will.”

“Pffft! You don’t need to tell me that, trust me, I know,” Joe said.

“You don’t act like it.”

“Andy, gimme a break. What are you, my mom?”

Andy grinned and dodged an oncoming punch, “You wish I was your mom. I look good in heels and pearls.”

In the shadows and with their hands close to the ground, Pete and Patrick laced their fingers together and listened to the ongoing chatter.


	5. Chapter 5

At their house party gig, the members of Charnel House were surprised to see how the size of the crowd grew minutes before they went on stage. It was strange, considering how they had been shook off throughout the night. Initially, they presumed it was due to the band that was scheduled to play after them. That band was, apparently, comprised of people that the majority of the guests actually knew. But no, among the sea of faces, they recognized many long-time fans with some of them even wearing the ratty logo t-shirts they used to sell. There was a cluster of girls at the front who were particularly thrilled to be in attendance, giggling and pointing and waving. The boys waved back at them from their little huddle at the side of the stage. 

“Joe, did you mention this gig on our MySpace page?” Patrick asked, feeling anxious. A lanky, greasy sort of kid near their temporary seating was shooting him daggers. He ignored him, continuing, “How would they get in, anyway? I thought this thing was invitation only.”

“I put it up on the page, yeah. Maybe these fans got in because.. Uhhh.. I dunno?” Joe said. He scratched the side of his head.

“Weird,” Patrick glanced around, a quick thought prompting him, “Thanks for doing that, by the way. Updating the page and stuff.”

“No problem.”

Andy decided to enlighten them, “Of course they got in! It’s a bunch of girls. They’re cute enough to find their way in here. We should be thanking them, they’re hyping everyone up for us.”

“True,” Joe conceded.

“There’s a couple of guys here that look like they’re fans, too,” Andy added. “That’s good. The more diverse our demographic, the better.”

Patrick flexed his fingers and toes, tension sweeping him when he noticed one of the hosts preparing to announce them. He kept his volume low, “Let’s just hope the people that don’t know us aren’t dickheads during the set. It’s not like we have security to rely on, for Christ’s sake.”

Andy’s response was lost as the cheap crackly microphone rose above their ears.

“Hellooo ladies and gents! Thank you for coming out tonight,” the main host greeted the audience and anyone else in the vicinity, his enthusiasm tinged with alcohol. “My name’s Jesse and you all know I throw the _best_ parties this side of Chicago!”

There was a modest round of applause, followed by several hecklers sarcastically harassing Jesse about how many drinks he had and where his girlfriend was. One person hollered for everyone to hush up, idiotically contributing to the problem.

Jesse persisted, the layered speaker sets blaring and muffling the noise, “All right, all right! We’ve got Charnel House opening tonight with The Gemstones for our main event. It’s gonna be a wild ride! Try not to mosh too hard, I can’t afford to have the cops bust my door down. All right.. Buckle up, suckers, and put your hands together for Charnel House!”

Graciously, this new round of applause was much heavier, with whistles and encouraging yells mixed in. The same cluster of girls at the front pushed forward, their tube tops and chunky jewelry pressed to the edge of the stage. Since Jesse’s backyard wasn’t an actual venue, there was no barricade and nothing preventing them from being close enough to claw at stray ankles or jean cuffs. Though they managed to keep their hands to themselves while the band did final checks on their instruments and plugged everything in, they couldn’t contain their comments and questions.

“Trick, Trick, ahhh! You’re so cool! You guys are gonna rock this,” a girl no older than sixteen squealed. She bounced in place and batted her eyelashes up at him. 

“I love you guys!” another girl chimed in, pumping her fist with a cheer.

Patrick was grateful for their support, and, being the first one ready to go, planned on responding. He always thought it was rude when smaller bands refused to interact with their fans. However, he had barely opened his mouth when he heard something that stopped him cold. 

A third voice thundered to snatch his attention, “Trick! Are you dating Pete? Please say you are! Is that why Pete joined?”

Pete, Joe, Andy, and a good portion of the crowd listened in. It was tough not to, the girl’s voice loud and determined. A collectively murmur enveloped the atmosphere, with those who hadn’t heard wondering what the hell was going on. Off to the side, Jesse’s forehead wrinkled in tipsy confusion. A friend behind him whispered something in his ear, his uncertain expression holding firm. Regardless, he motioned for them to get on with the show.

Patrick granted the girls a tiny smile, the microphone removed from the stand, “Good evening, you beautiful mothafuckers! A big thanks to Jesse and his crew for inviting us out here to play tonight. Give it up!”

He paused, the clapping and howls of appreciation needing the space. The commotion soon died down, and he returned the microphone to his lips. He inhaled, psyching himself up for the unleashing of their first song, “Now, we’re gonna--!”

“HEY!” a rowdy college boy interrupted, directing his shout at Patrick. “Where the fuck is Ronnie? Why’s there a different bassist?”

Those around him, presumably his backup, jeered alongside him. They likely didn’t give two shits about where Ronnie was, and wanted a reaction from Patrick more than anything. Unfortunately for them, phasing a confident lead singer was a challenge in its own right.

“Hey there,” Patrick chirped, swinging his hips and provoking his guitar to twirl around him, “I know you’re crushing on Ronnie, no worries, I get it. He’s a handsome guy.”

Laughter erupted from the crowd. A middle finger was shown from the college boy, clearly ticked off.

Patrick brightened, “Ronnie’s moved on to bigger and better things, and we’re cool with that. Besides, how can you not love Pete?”

More applause with Joe playing a rousing riff in the background, the grass trembling under the weight of the noise. 

“In case anyone out there doesn’t know, this is our second show with Pete as our bassist and lyricist. He’s a great guy and this first song was written by him,” Patrick said, the microphone replaced on the stand. Without having to ask, Pete was at his side and crushing his cheek into Patrick’s shoulder. The instant they touched, an ensemble of squeaks exploded from girls in all across the lawn. It genuinely startled the band and anyone else who didn’t understand the implied dynamic. 

Patrick looked away from Pete and caught Joe’s gaze. Then Andy’s. Then back to Joe. They didn’t move, their pupils dilating and unblinking. 

Joe gulped. He sighed and tilted his head to give the slightest sign of approval. He began to strum the introduction of ‘Growing Up’.

“Let’s get this bullshit started!” Patrick roared into the microphone. He reached over to grab Pete by the back of the neck. Without aiming, he turned and smooched him on the side of his head, briefly burying his nose into the heat damaged dark hair. He pulled back, belting into the audience, “One, two, one, two, three, four!”

\---

Red solo cup in hand, Patrick was cornered into one section of the porch and entertaining a small swarm of fans with Pete and Joe. Andy had disappeared inside the house to supposedly take a piss and make a phone call. Their set, and the headliner’s set, had ended almost an hour ago. This didn’t mean the party was slowing down, rather, it was getting its second wind.

“Did you guys know that Jesse used to be in a band?” Cindy, one of the girls who had been at the front of the stage earlier, asked them. 

Joe, more than eager to impress his peers, gave quite the response, “Shit, really? It must’ve been a boy band, ‘cause he uses more hair gel than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Snickering, the group was glad to poke a little fun at their host. They knew that Jesse was on perfectly good terms with the band, since he had made the effort to personally praise them after the show. He had even begun to drunkenly babble about how he wanted them to play at his birthday party in the next couple of months. Of course, the best compliment of all was how he had paid the promised amount in addition to a few extra twenties for the hell of it. It was the first time they had ever been tipped.

“You’re _so_ funny,” Cindy said to Joe, quiet enough to create a sense of privacy. She had been inching closer to him from the moment they had played their final song, her glossy pout plump with anticipation. She went to squeeze his nearest arm, tickled pink when he shifted to allow for a better hold. “I’m gonna pop inside for a sec, do you need anything? A drink? Or..?”

“I’m all set, don’t worry,” Joe replied, raising his can of Budweiser for emphasis. He was about to say that he would be right here waiting for her when he felt a tap on the back of his head. Annoyed, he twisted to see Pete. And without a chance to complain, he received some friendly advice.

“Are you stupid? She wants to blow you or whatever. Go with her,” Pete discreetly informed him. He nudged the younger boy toward the sliding glass door that separated the backyard from the living room.

Joe’s face rippled with confusion, and he did a double take between Cindy and Pete. The way she refused to let go of his arm and how she was toying with her ponytail made for plenty of evidence. Hm. Interesting. He chose to believe his bandmate and chugged the remainder of his beer, the empty can tossed into a trash bag. He took no notice over the fact that he missed the shot, already being guided into the house by Cindy. 

Pete rolled his eyes and joined in on whatever story Patrick was spinning for the group.

Inside, Cindy began to tease and tell Joe about a tattoo she had done a few weekends ago. She kept him close as they walked, spilling the details in a hushed tone. Soon, she was changing her path to take them to the upstairs bathroom, the facade of visiting the kitchen for more drinks abandoned. 

“Joe,” Andy called, stepping out of the living room where he had been texting another potential gig. He hadn’t been spotted when the couple entered the area, obviously too enthralled in each other. “Can I talk to you for a minute? Sorry, it’s important.”

“What? Oh, sure, man,” Joe answered. He awkwardly let Cindy know that he would join her upstairs when he was done, and was thankful when she understood and pecked his cheek. He watched her leave, smitten.

Andy didn’t comment, huddling them next to the couch and diving into the issue at hand, “How do you feel the show went?”

“It was,” Joe debated how to describe it, “it was pretty damn good. The crowd was pumped and we stayed in synch for most of the songs.. Why, what do you think?”

“I’d say I’m in the same boat as you. But was kinda asking about Pete and Patrick’s situation.”

“They were solid. Unless you’re talking about..?”

Andy nodded.

Undoubtedly uncomfortable, Joe rocked on his heels to distract himself. God, this wasn’t what he wanted to be doing right now. He mentally recapped tonight’s performance - there was the girls screaming about Pete and Patrick’s relationship status prior to the show’s start, the kiss that kicked off their first song, the touching throughout the set, the way they pushed their backs against each other during Patrick’s solo, and, how could he forget, Pete’s arms cemented around Patrick’s neck while the finale faded away and they introduced the next band. It was a lot to digest. He winced.

“It’s not that it’s hurting us. It’s a good thing,” Andy said. He tugged the sweatbands on his wrists, adjusting their placement and involuntarily wanting something else to focus on. “I just don’t know if it’s too much too soon.”

“We could talk to them about it?” Joe stole a glimpse of the porch outside where Pete and Patrick remained with the fans.

“Yeah. Although I’d be lying if I said I had any idea where to start that conversation.”

“We’d also look like assholes since they haven’t technically done anything wrong yet,” Joe said. He didn’t want to be unfair and spark drama without reason.

“You’re right.”

“So what are we supposed to do, Andy?”

Together, they turned and soaked in the sights of the party. Beyond the fireflies and empty glasses, the other half of their band stood proudly. Pete and Patrick appeared to be attached at the hip, their features glowing and their mouths moving a mile a minute to captivate their keen little audience. Despite the concrete beneath their feet, they were on cloud nine. The recognition, the acceptance, the _power_ to get away with how they were they were acting was easy to see from afar. 

The most unusual part about the whole affair was that none of the girls were trying to make a move on them. They were respecting the assumed relationship.

Joe broke the silence, “I’m okay with how they are. With how everything is. Maybe we shouldn’t mess with what they have, errr, I mean, if it’s not causing a direct problem.”

“I get that. But when will we know that it’s becoming a ‘direct problem’?” Andy wondered, wary of a pair of teenagers sliding the door open and stomping toward the kitchen.

“Whenever it impacts our music, you know, when they’re being childish.”

“That’ll be a tough call to make, considering they never act their age.”

Joe couldn’t help chuckling, “You’re the one who always says you have to babysit us. I’ll help you this time. We won’t let them get too crazy.”

“Does that mean I still have to babysit you?”

“Hilarious.”

Andy beamed, “I’m glad somebody thinks so. It’s hard being singled out as an amazing drummer and nothing else.”

“What goes on under that mop of yours?” Joe taunted, waving a hand above the older boy’s long frizzy locks. “You need your sarcasm detector checked. Otherwise, you won’t survive with us hoodlums.”

“Tragic. I’m too old for you, just like how she is,” Andy mocked in exchange. He gestured toward the staircase.

Hanging off the banister was Cindy, waiting for Joe and winking when he turned to meet her gaze.

Joe puffed up his chest, “She’s not too old for me. She’s probably, like, eighteen or nineteen.”

“Or twenty something,” Andy said, amused.

“Then fuck it, time to break the law. I’ll catch you later.”

“Don’t forget, Joe.”

“I know, I know. You don’t need to tell me twice. We’re babysitting.”

\---

Pete sat outside of a local burger joint, bouncing his wallet between his hands and checking his surroundings every minute or so. The smell of sugary ketchup and sizzling beef permeated the air, seeping into the paper cups and napkins. People were lining up at the the order window, the seating area guarded by an awning while the actual grills and fries and cash registers were inside a cramped brick building. This place was more popular in the warm summer months, which is why Pete had suggested it. It was bustling and unkempt in a romantic sort of way.

He was supposed to meet Patrick here for a date. Lately, they had been texting nonstop and had decided to make plans for a lunchtime meetup. They had realized that interacting through the screen paled in comparison to their face-to-face bonding sessions. Moreover, they couldn’t exactly get to know each other’s intimate intricacies during band practice. Their purely sexual secret meetups weren’t ideal, either. They both were craving a happy medium.

This meant that, yes, dating was on the table. They had a shared personal life away from the band.

Pete was satisfied with how smoothly he had transitioned into Charnel House. His lyrics were on the lips of the fans, his bass skills had improved, and he had their lead singer wrapped around his finger. It was more than he could have hoped for, especially considering how much he had clashed with previous bandmates. The scuffle with Joe regarding the reveal of his and Patrick’s relationship was nothing in comparison to some of the nonsense he had dealt with in the past. There were no broken noses or wrecked drywall, though it had been a close call. They were an excitable, manageable bunch. 

The one flaw he could pinpoint was not knowing what he and Patrick truly were. Friends with benefits? Boyfriends? Two guys that happen to make music and love on the side? To be safe, he hadn’t been involved with anyone else. Nevertheless, he wasn’t into labels, and he was clueless as to how much Patrick cared about them. He had contemplated bringing it up the next time they were alone, which was, conveniently, today. But it was a difficult topic to make time for. And in the most honest part of his subconscious, he was afraid that he might be rejected.

What was going to do? Wait and see?

Broken from his thoughts, he spotted Patrick and beckoned him over, “Hi! ‘Bout time you got here, I’m starving.”

“Hahah,” Patrick grinned, increasing his pace and giving him a split-second hug when he reached him. “I’m surprised you didn’t order without me. That seems like something you’d do.”

“No way, I’m a total gentleman.”

“You’re ridiculous, that’s what you are.”

They walked to the order window and stood in line with at least two families and three couples ahead of them. Recognizing that they would be stuck for who knows how long, they nestled into a bit of chitchat.

“So,” Pete began, hands in his pockets, “last weekend was pretty crazy. I had a blast at that party.”

“Same, Jesse and his buddies were waaay fuckin’ nicer after they heard us play. I guess that means we’re decent,” Patrick said.

“Yup. I think I saw Jesse’s girlfriend - what’s her name? Sarah? - try to flash you at some point during the set. Your voice is what sets us apart.”

“Please, as if I’d fuck her.”

“Heh, well if you won’t, Joe will,” Pete asserted. “He couldn’t get enough of those girls. He made it upstairs with a couple of them.”

Patrick snorted, “Good! Maybe that’ll keep him out my business. He’s so uptight sometimes, getting laid is just what he needs.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” a woman in front of them barked, whipping around to give them a death glare. “I have children with me, watch your language. Nobody wants to hear that.”

Clinging to her legs were indeed two young children, fearfully hiding beside their mother.

“.. Sorry, lady,” Patrick offered flatly. For the kids, he did a thumbs up.

“Apologies,” Pete added, although he was slow on the delivery. The woman was ignoring them and had shooed her children toward the order window.

Patrick stuck his tongue out at her and returned to the previous discussion, “Anyways, like I was saying..”

Pete listened to Patrick’s babblings, not bothering to correct him on any false information and content to take in every mundane detail. This went on until they were able to choose and pay for their food, their allotted ticket number eventually hollered out the order window. Armed with their trays of burgers, fries, and sodas, they landed at a distant table covered in trash. They cleaned the space and hunkered down, sitting next to one another with their knees almost touching.

The majority of their meal went off without a single word being exchanged, mostly due to how hungry they were, preventing them from digging too deeply into what was on their minds. They were bloated and belching by the time their words carried any substance.

“I’m glad that the fans know about us. Helps keep the rumors in check,” Pete noted, having carefully structured the sentence in his head before speaking.

Patrick wiped his chin with the back of his hand, shrugging, “Yeah, it’s fine. There’s not much to know.”

“Huh?”

“We’re bandmates who happen to be fucking, it’s not a big deal.”

“That’s fair,” Pete said timidly. 

“Like, if those girls want to see us dating, then they can keep coming to our shows. What we do on stage should be enough for them,” Patrick grunted, hating the idea of being put on display to fulfill someone else’s fantasies. 

“Yup.”

“We can fake it ‘til we make it, though.”

Pete masked his disappointment with humor, “Shoot, so you’re saying this doesn’t count as a date? This is one of the most respected restaurants in town.”

Patrick nudged him under the table, his hand making a fleeting sweep over Pete’s thigh. When he brought his hand up, he tucked a stray hair behind his ear, muttering, “This counts. What we do when we’re alone is real. And nobody needs to be fussing over that.”

“You mean it?”

“Duh. I swear this one of the better dates I’ve had.”

“It,” Pete was stunned, his mask dissipating, “it is? Why’s that? We haven’t even done anything.”

Patrick’s brow furrowed. He hummed and pretended to search the sky for answers. When there was nothing to be found, he nuzzled into the crook of Pete’s neck, kissing the sunny skin he found. Its flavor was exactly what he was aching for; the salty sweat mixed with musky cologne sending a flutter of joy across his spine. He immediately pulled away, concerned that the wrong people would witness them if he lingered for too long. 

“Patrick?” Pete was puzzled, honey brown eyes fixed on the shorter boy.

“It’s not that we need to do anything, it’s that I like you. Which means I like being with you, get it?” Patrick explained. He reclined as much as he could on the bench, taking in Pete’s unique brand of devilish beauty. “Plus, cheeseburgers are probably my favorite type of fast food. So you’ve got that going for you, too.”

“Lucky me.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it. This shit’s fate.”


	6. Chapter 6

Pete handed Andy a water bottle, and stood stiffly beside him with an uncertain expression. Currently, he was being excluded from a circle that included his bandmates and several longtime fans who had known them since before the band’s inception. It was hard for him to know what to do, so he clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

He listened to them sling stories at each other, exchanging slaps on the back, and nitpicking tonight’s performance from top to bottom. All in good fun, no doubt. Apparently, these longtime fans remembered when Charnel House used to do basement shows and get booed for how shitty their overall sound was. They also ragged on Patrick for how horrible he used to be at addressing crowds and how Joe would always sing his backing vocals at the wrong time. Yet they yearned for those good old days and complained that there had been too many changes lately.

Pete wrinkled his forehead. He kept his mouth shut and eventually the conversation wrapped up, the venue staff beginning to herd the group toward the exit.

“Let’s go,” Pete tried to urge Patrick. He nudged him and frowned when they were still stuck saying their final goodbyes to everyone. 

“We’ve gotta close shop,” a security guard said, finally opening the venue’s back doors and physically pushing the fans out. “These guys gotta talk to management.”

“Management? Don’t tell me they’re not gonna pay us,” Joe grumbled. Due to the security guard having at least a hundred pounds on him, he kept his tone somewhat polite.

The security guard shut the door once it was cleared, saying, “No, you’re getting paid. I think she wants to talk about having you guys come back again.”

Joe whistled and raised his fist triumphantly, with Andy happily nodding in agreement. Pete and Patrick shared a surprised, intrigued look.

They were escorted upstairs to a large lounge room, the security guard knocking on the door prior to entering. Once they were inside, they were left alone with a stout woman in a pantsuit who seemed to be in her early forties. She rubbed her palms together and failed to veil her smirk. Or, perhaps, she wanted them to see her smug demeanor.

“Ah, Charnel House, what a pleasure. Call me Diana, I’m the manager and owner here at The Empty Bottle,” Diana said, going down the line to shake everyone’s hands. At the same time, she caught their names and what instrument they played. When she finished, she took a step back and put her hands on her hips, admiring what she had found.

Joe spoke up first, “We heard that you want us to come play here again? Is that true?”

“It’s _much_ more than that,” Diana trilled. From her front pocket, she brought out a fat leatherbound billfold that was filled to the brim with tonight’s earnings. She waggled it like a bone for a pack of dogs. “Not only did you sell out as the headliners, but you also cleaned out your merchandise table and a good chunk of my bar. I’m impressed.”

She unzipped the billfold and passed them a hundred dollars each, the rings on her fingers clinking excitedly with her movements. She worked at a lightning pace and repeatedly offered her thanks. With the money distributed, she was soon ushering them over to the farside of the lounge. They sat in cushy armchairs around a glass table, with a packet of printed papers stacked in the middle. The light above them wasn’t particularly bright, making it impossible to see exactly what they were looking at. Whatever it was, it gave off an aura of importance. 

“Now let’s talk business,” Diana said, taking the seat at the head of the table, “I’m eager to roll us onto the right track. I want to get this band signed and making a full-length record.”

“ _What_ ,” Patrick couldn’t prevent his outburst, “are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

Pete and Andy, who were seated next to one another, had legitimately cupped their mouths in shock. They didn’t know what to say, their ears poised to hear more.

Joe was stunned, “How do we, how do we do that? You can get us signed and in a studio?”

“It’s my side hustle, yes. When I’m not here running the venue, some friends and I have a little project called Underground Communique Records. We’re hunting for indie, rock, and punk bands on the Chicago scene that have the potential to thrive on a national scale,” Diana elaborated. She took a breath, idly tapping her fingertips together. Upon realizing how captivated the group was, she pushed forward, “I feel that Charnel House could be one of those bands.”

“Shit, that’s amazing,” Patrick said. He was shaking slightly, the room spinning around him in a dizzying rush of emotions. 

“I can’t believe..” Andy trailed off. 

“Yeah,” Pete responded to no one in particular, his lip curling upward, “oh my God. This is insane. Like, it’s an insane dream come true.”

Diana, patient as she was, hurried with her following question, “I take it you’re all interested? This has to be a group effort.”

“Fuck yeah we’re interested!” Joe had stood from his armchair, his determination seeping through his exterior. “When can we start?”

Andy, Pete, and Patrick affirmed Joe’s words as he returned to his seat. Slowly, their eyes drifted to the center of the table. The stack of papers, which they correctly assumed was the contract, drew them in with an invisible beckoning. 

“Before we begin, there are a couple of stipulations. Terms of agreement, if you will,” Diana informed them. She reached for the contract and flipped through the pages. “The payout is going to be minimal at first. We’ll compensate you for your time in the studio and you’ll each take home five percent of the total record sales. Should your record be successful, that five percent cap has unlimited power. Additionally.. Your local show schedule and any tours will be managed by me, and you won’t be able to play wherever you want whenever you want. That includes house shows.”

“How much will we be compensated for during recording? And how much of the ticket sales will we receive at the shows you book?” Andy’s eyebrows were fixed in a curious arch.

Without missing a beat, Diana had the numbers, “You’ll be paid around five hundred for your time in the studio. As for the shows we book, we’re looking at twenty-five percent of the total ticket sales. Possibly more if you consistently sell out.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” Patrick said. He squinted and attempted to read the fine print, giving up when he figured they would have time for that later.

“Makes the job of finding places to play a lot easier,” Joe chimed in.

Andy smiled, “Which is usually my job. It’s pretty rough sometimes.”

“Yes, we’ll take care of it,” Diana assured. Her features wavered for a moment, her cakey foundation on the verge of crumbling. She had a bit of bad news, and hoped to frame it delicately, “Another term of agreement we have here is that we, and you must understand me on this, we are going to change the band name. By ‘we’ I mean myself, my associates, and you boys. You’ll throw new names at us until we find one that sticks.”

“Uhhh,” Joe’s annoyance was palpable, “why’s that? What’s wrong with the name we’ve already got?”

“Nothing. We just think you can do better.”

“Okay?”

Diana let out a sigh that was tinged with sympathy, “It’s a marketing issue. We can go into more details during our next meeting, but if a name change is going to be a dealbreaker, then I need to know right this instant.”

Joe was taken aback. Hard. He and Patrick were the ones who had initially decided on the name, more than a year ago during a drunken night in front of a PlayStation. They swapped worried looks. It was quite an ego blow to be told that your masterpiece didn’t hold commercial value. Still, they recognized that it was minor in comparison to their actual music. They weren’t about to walk away from this deal over a name change. Together, they shook their heads in approval and allowed the meeting to continue.

“Good.” Diana was pleased that the contract hadn’t been caught in a roadblock, her smirk resurfacing. “The final term of agreement is that you must individually sign off for your own name. No one can sign off for anyone but themselves. This keeps everyone’s rights to the band’s image, music, and merchandise separate and equal. It’s standard practice.”

“I don’t think I can sign off yet. I don’t turn eighteen for two more weeks,” Joe said. His embarrassment about being the youngest, if any, was well-hidden.

“That won’t be an issue. In fact, that works in our favor,” Diana replied.

“I don’t get it?”

“We can use that two weeks to give you boys time to make your decision. After the two weeks is up, we’ll meet again. Should you choose to sign off, you’ll be of age and we can move things along smoothly.”

Joe could live with that. Peering around at his bandmates, it was obvious that they could, too. They were painfully eager and hadn’t fully recovered from their initial surprise at the situation.

“So we’re cool?” Patrick ventured, his shaking subsiding. “Joe?”

“Yeah,” Joe answered. “We’ll talk it over on our own and meet up after my birthday.”

“Sounds good to me,” Pete said. He was glowing, his cheeks rosy and his pupils wide.

“Me, too,” Andy added.

Diana stood and extended her hand for a second round of handshakes, “We can’t wait to make a deal here. At our next meeting, we’ll go over the finer details before you sign off on everything. Just don’t forget what your pay will look like at first, your percentages of the record sales, our control of your show and tour schedule, plus the name change when you’re discussing this on your own time.”

“We won’t forget, trust us,” Pete said confidently. “Our minds are gonna be so focused on this I don’t know how we’ll function.”

“Don’t think too hard on it. I always urge my new clients to go with their gut. Now, who’s going to be my main point of contact?” Diana asked, a notepad and pen taken from her purse. 

She was sold on the idea of them. She had been since their opener for tonight’s set. 

\---

“Well fuck,” Patrick said, saluting his bandmates with a shot of vodka, “cheers to us. To getting signed with a record deal.”

“Cheers!” Pete echoed. He tapped their glasses together and they both downed their shots. 

“Hey we haven’t officially said ‘yes’ yet. We’ve got, what, like a week and a half? ‘Sides, it’s my band,” Joe reminded them, though he was mostly kidding. 

Patrick was sputtering after drinking too quickly, nearly dropping his shot glass. A few coughs later he was laying into Joe, “Don’t be a drama queen, we’re jumping on that sweet deal. It’s ours to take.”

“Dude, I know. We’re on our way up,” Joe said, his own shot of vodka drained in two gulps. “We could be fuckin’ famous!”

“Hell yeah!”

Pete laughed and held out his empty glass to Andy who was unscrewing the lid on the bottle of Grey Goose. He received a refill and effortlessly threw it back. 

“Who cares about fame, I’m just stoked for that paycheck,” Andy said, reaching over to replenish Patrick and Joe, as well. “It’s about time we turn this hobby into something more. We’ve put our hearts and souls into it. And I’m exhausted.”

Andy bumped the refrigerator door closed and walked to the couch. His family’s garage had become quite the hangout for the band. Of course, this was solely because of Andy being kind enough to volunteer. What with the refrigerator full of booze, the cozy old couch, and his parents utterly accustomed to how loud his drum kit was, they always preferred to hold their brainstorming and practice sessions here. It was relaxed and simple. 

“Pffft, I’m the one who’s exhausted. I’ve got school starting soon,” Joe argued. He leaned into the cushions, positioned on the left side of the couch with Pete and Patrick in the middle.

“Drop out?” Patrick suggested. He made a grabby motion for the vodka bottle, and pouted when Andy refused to pass it to him.

“Don’t drop out, Joe, it’ll hurt you more in the long run,” Andy said. He hated when people spoke so casually about such an important matter. “You’re talented, but you’ve got to have a backup plan.”

“D’awww, gee, you think I’m talented?” Joe mocked. He obviously wasn’t in the mood to be serious.

“That’s right. I also think you’re an idiot.”

“Haha, fuck you.”

Andy ignored him, instead focusing on his other bandmates, “This is why Diana wanted my number for the main point of contact. I’m a little more level headed than our founding father over here.”

Pete and Patrick sneered. They knew this to be true and hushed Joe when he tried to talk over them and defend himself.

“When can we call her, anyway?” Pete asked. He placed his shot glass on the wobbly wooden cable spool that served as their table. Underneath, he retrieved a beer from the chilled six pack, the cap popped off with his car keys.

“We just saw her a couple days ago. It’d probably be best to give her a call by the end of the week. I’ll do it on Friday, if that’s okay with you guys,” Andy said thoughtfully.

Everyone was comfortable with this. 

“I still can’t believe we have to change the band’s name,” Patrick said. He scratched the back of his neck, recalling Diana’s words. “I mean, ‘marketing issue’ my ass.”

Joe growled, “It’s bullshit. Can’t do anything about it, though.”

“Hopefully the fans don’t crucify us.”

“They’ll crucify _you_ , Patrick, you’re the one who’s gonna have to tell them.”

Staying quiet, Patrick stared down at his lap. Letting the fans in on the changes that were coming was most likely going to happen at one of their shows. It made sense that it was his job as the lead singer and frontman to announce it on stage. They didn’t want to do it over the Internet because it was such a cop out, and could result in the fans being even more upset. If he did it in-person, he would put on his most powerful puppy face and clasp his hands together in a plead for forgiveness. He would drop to his knees if he had to.

He lifted his head when he felt Pete’s fingers touch his arm. 

“It’ll be okay,” Pete said. He removed his fingers. “Once their surprise wears off, they’ll be happy.”

Joe was skeptical, “We’ll see.. I wonder what will happen with you two.. That could be interesting.”

“Us?” Pete pointed between himself and Patrick.

“Yep.”

“Not sure what you’re saying.” Pete calmly took a sip of his beer and passed one to Joe to keep the peace. This ripple in their discussion was unnerving. He rolled his shoulders, his nonchalance forced, “Diana didn’t seem like she wanted to get rid of our stage dynamic. We can ask her when we see her again, right?”

“We will, don’t worry,” Andy cut in. He moved to refill their shot glasses for a third time, wondering if more alcohol would make this situation more or less awkward.

Their shoes shuffled against the concrete floor, substituting for a lack of communication. Despite having a contract and record deal on the line, it was difficult to predict where the band would take them. Rather than sailing aimlessly in the underbelly of the city that had nurtured them, they were suddenly docking on foreign shores. It was fresh and intense and terrifying. The only remedy was to press onward and keep working for the common goal of having their sound reach the masses.

Patrick took Pete’s beer, tilting it to the ceiling it and insisting, “We’ll do what we’re told to get our money and our stake in the fame game. The second our artistic motives are questioned, we fight back.”

“You tell ‘em,” Pete encouraged.

“I knew I raised you right. We should always be ready to stand up to the man, or woman, in this case,” Andy said, grinning.

Joe looked away.

\---

With a signed contract and the name of ‘Charnel House’ abandoned, Pete, Andy, Patrick, and Joe were gathered at the studio for Underground Communique Records by the end of September. The studio was located in downtown Chicago, which meant they had a fabulous time shouting about what their next turn was and where to park while jammed inside a stuffy car. They arrived in a huff and were obnoxiously close to being late. Their shabby instruments stuck out among the expensive equipment, their ripped jeans and t-shirts equally inappropriate. It didn’t matter too much, thankfully, with general process of recording going well and earning them praise.

“Nice run through, boys,” Diana’s voice complimented them over the loudspeaker. She stood on the opposite side of the glass, her associates surrounding her and illuminated by the lights of the control panel. “I’d like to get ‘Fever Pitch’ down a couple more times. We’re wanting to use that for the single, so we need to have it perfectly perfect.”

“Gotcha, boss,” Joe called in response. He plucked the opening riff and spun in a circle. 

“I believe I mentioned you don’t need to call me that.”

“Roger that, boss.”

Joe waved a hand to signal he was merely goofing off. How could he not, what with how well this was going? Honestly, he was ecstatic. Fever Pitch was the song that had originally set them apart from their competition in the local scene. It was his song where he had written the entirety of both the lead and rhythm guitar parts. Though Pete had made a fistful of necessary improvements to the lyrics and bass parts, Fever Pitch was his baby. Its melodies were more than collective noise and aggression, it was personal. It was his.

Reassembling, the band checked their tuning and shook any jitters. They waited for the electric sign in front of them to switch from red to green. Once they had the all clear, they tore into the song. They played with every last ounce passion they had - and it was plain to see. Andy’s drumming was fierce, his sticks slamming with such precision and strength that the carpet quivered below him. Joe’s strings were on fire, his wrists fluid with natural talent meeting years of practice. Patrick’s voice flooded the microphone in a glorious mix of highs and lows; his eyes remained squished shut, causing him to be oblivious to his environment and whoever may be watching him.

Fortunately, he already knew who it was.

Pete performed his part on the bass, however, his attention kept wandering toward Patrick. He was gorgeous. Head to toe, he was enamored. There was nothing he didn’t adore, physical flaws and personality quirks included. Patrick made Pete feel alive and purposeful, especially when they were making music. Sure, Joe and Andy were crucial components to their creation, but they weren’t the ones bellowing his lyrics with such fervor and grace. Patrick’s stage presence was simultaneously calculated and unpolished, tempting him to sneak a taste. It was quite the turnon. 

Biting his lower lip, Pete zeroed in on the song’s finale and played his last chain of notes. He rocketed his hand upward when he finished, his fingertips pinching the pick.

Diana’s voice was brimming with pride that saturated the loudspeaker, “How about that. I demanded perfectly perfect and that’s what I was given. Let’s end it here for today. Come on out and we can chat about future plans.”

The band exhaled in relief. Three hours later, and their efforts were fully validated. High fives and congratulations were shared, their egos mutually stroked. They packed up their instruments and exited the booth, sapped of their energy.

“For those of you who were keeping track,” Diana joked with her associates, “we have eight full-length songs for the album. I’m a dreamer, and I know these boys are, too, which leads me to suggest that we add two more to finish it off. What do we think about that?”

“Doable,” one of her associates said fearlessly.

“It will give us that extra push,” another associate stated.

Andy stepped into the fray, “By when would we need these songs? And should we keep with the theme?”

Diana spoke in a hush among her associates. They hastily reached a common ground, their body language displaying a sense of urgency.

“We’re definitely going to keep with the theme. For a due date, let’s say in a week or so?” Diana was aware of how stressful the deadline may feel, and she softened it by allowing them some leeway, “Perhaps even two weeks. Bring us what you can, and we’ll go from there. I have the utmost confidence in your abilities.”

“We can do that, I think” Andy said. He turned to Pete, “You gonna be able to crank out some killer lyrics for us?”

Pete was beaming, “Yeah, no problem. You guys just gotta back me up.”

“Wonderful. Again, I have plenty of faith here,” Diana emphasized. 

“What about the name change?” Joe’s concern was evident in his inflection. He crossed his arms and shifted on his heels.

“Ah,” Diana cooed, recalling their failure to rename the band, “that needs to be done much sooner. You have a show this weekend and you’ll be announcing the new name then and there. Let’s get on that, shall we?”


	7. Chapter 7

“Where’s Pete?” Patrick asked.

“He, uhm,” Joe put on an impression of innocence, “there was a doctor’s appointment he had to go to. Yeah.”

“Was it for that ankle sprain he got at practice the other day? I told him not to jump off the couch,” Andy said, shaking his head. He reached for the bowl of pretzels between them and grabbed a fistful.

“I think so.”

“Idiot,” Patrick grumbled.

Joe turned his palms over in a gesture of ‘Oh well’. No shit he knew Pete had a doctor’s appointment on this exact date at this exact time. He had been informed of this when texting him about when they would all be able to meet up and decide on a new band name. He had used the inconvenience of the doctor’s appointment to his advantage. By claiming that the date and time of the doctor’s appointment was what worked best for the rest of the group, he had rid them of Pete for the day. Lying through his teeth and praying that no one would really bother to question the situation was the name of the game. So far, it was smooth sailing. 

“So, what ideas do we have? Anything?” Andy pushed forward with. He crunched on his pretzels, waiting.

“I’ve got a couple,” Joe eagerly leapt in with. He scooted forward, hovering over the the cable spool table. From his jeans pocket, he withdrew a folded piece of notebook paper. “I came up with these in English class yesterday, hah.”

“Glad to hear you’re doing well in school,” Andy snipped. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry. The band’s gonna take off and school won’t even matter.”

Patrick watched him curiously. He had his own list ready to go, which included several names that Pete had suggested to him last night, and he was interested to see what Joe had in mind. After all, he was the one who had mostly come up with their original name. 

“Listen to these.” Joe unfolded the paper and cleared his throat. “How about.. ‘Last Resort’, ‘Blind Chance’, ‘Whiplash’..?”

Andy pursed his lips in thought. He rubbed at the bottom of his chin, his stubble scratching against his skin. A moment later, he turned to face Patrick.

“I’m not sure,” Patrick said when he noticed Andy’s stare. The names were decent. Although there wasn’t a single one that genuinely tugged at his heart. He tried to picture himself announcing the names to the crowd, floundering in the process. Each name was too stiff or too typical for his tastes. None of them would work. And he wasn’t about to tell that to Joe. “Are there any others? I mean, I like ‘Blind Chance’, but I’m not a hundred percent sold yet.”

Irritated since he had presented his favorite names first, Joe answered, “Yeah, I have some more. How about.. ‘The Testimony’ or ‘The Luckless’? Oh, I’ve got ‘Lost Boys’ and ‘Night Riot’.”

“Hm, ‘Lost Boys’,” Patrick mused. 

“You like it?” Joe was hopeful, the list held close to his chest. That name wasn’t his personal number one choice, but hey, he would happily take credit.

“It’s got a certain ring to it,” Andy noted, gulping down pretzels.

“No, no,” Patrick said, immediately backtracking, “I like the name. It’s good. It’s just that it reminded me of a name Pete texted me last night.”

Joe could hardly contain his skepticism, “Pete? What name did he come up with?”

“Hang on,” Patrick said, opening his phone his conversation with Pete. He had to tap the up arrow multiple times before he found the message he had been searching for. “Okay, got it.”

“What is it?” Joe’s knuckles were white beneath his skin, crushing the list. He had a bad feeling about whatever the hell he was about to hear.

They collectively held their breath. It was instinctual. They couldn’t help assuming that the band’s poet had chosen some kind of beautifully ironic name.

Patrick looked up from his phone’s screen, “It’s ‘Fall Out Boy’.”

“What does that even mean?” Joe questioned, reeling if he had been shot. “Like, what’s a ‘Fall Out Boy’? C’mon, Pete can do better than that. _I_ can do better than that. Get real..”

“I dunno, it’s not bad,” Andy said. He definitely was more attracted to this name than the ones Joe had cited.

“You think so?” Patrick had his attention on Andy, barely acknowledging Joe’s distaste for the name.

“It’s pretty sweet. Is it referencing something?”

“Pete said it was a Simpson’s reference.”

Joe’s urge to lash out was rearing its ugly head, his words strained, “I like the Simpson’s as much as the next guy, but it’s not the kind of name we want, guys. We’re a punk band, we should have a kickass name.”

“Didn’t Diana say we’re going for a pop punk feel?” Andy recalled this from their previous meeting, figuring it was worth mentioning.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does, Joe.”

“Speaking of Diana, maybe we could run this name by her?” Patrick interrupted with. “We could run a few others by her, too. I still like ‘Blind Chance’.”

“Don’t you have any you came up with, Patrick?” Joe pressed, ready to settle for anything that wasn’t penned by Pete.

“Nah,” Patrick shrugged, “Mine are nothing special. You know I’m not so hot with this sort of thing.”

“You, but--”

“If me and Pete and Andy are all into this name, we can’t just shelve it and forget it.”

Joe wanted to scream that yes, yes you son of a bitch, we can and should drop this name before it catches the ears of Diana or the fans. In the furthest recesses of his soul, he knew it was a solid name and he would bet his next paycheck that it would be chosen by a landslide. He would be the minority and made to seem like an unreasonable stick in the mud if he refused to go along with it. He could picture it without much effort. Worse, he could picture how fast the name ‘Charnel House’ would fade from the world’s memory. No. Allowing Pete to rename the band that he had set out on a personal mission to make famous filled him with an overwhelming anguish. 

Patrick noticed Joe’s sullen demeanor, and proposed, “We’ll keep ‘Fall Out Boy’ and ‘Blind Chance’ for now. We have a couple days before we have to be back at the studio. Maybe we can decide on some other names, too?”

“We can do that,” Andy agreed. Keeping an eye on both his bandmates, he folded his hands behind his head and sunk into the couch’s threadbare cushions. His role as a babysitter extended beyond monitoring Pete and Patrick’s antics. There was always a need for his services, especially now with the tension caused by a romantic relationship in their midst.

“Okay,” Joe relented. He crammed the list into his pocket once again. 

Patrick’s optimism found its way to the surface, “Nothing’s set in stone. We’re gonna be great no matter what our name is.”

“Exactly,” Andy said.

“I know.” Joe’s posture was saggy and his lip ring was being chewed on. He let out a small cough, croaking, “We’ve got a lot going for us.”

That was true. With new management, the record deal, and the prospect of a cross country tour, their plates were overflowing with a bright future. Provided they didn’t spill that plate, they were in the clear.

\---

Pete’s ankle issue was soon resolved with prescribed painkillers and ice packs. The majority of his pain was an exaggeration, anyway. He was back on his feet in no time. He was able to make it to the band’s next practice prior to their meeting with Diana. Better yet, he brought a new song with him that he had scribbled at the doctor’s office. The lyrics were a knockout and the rest of the band was willing to finish the instrumentals with the vague descriptions Pete provided for the desired sound. The song came together in a sloppy, alluring way that they were eager to show Diana. 

Although they had been asked to arrive at the studio with two songs prepared, they forgot in the chaos of perfecting what they already had. 

“Disappointing,” Diana lamented, brushing aside their begs for forgiveness, “but understandable. I know songwriting is a delicate artform that I’m rushing here. Either way, let’s put that aside for today. I want to hear about your new name.. You do have one, yes?”

“We do,” Andy replied. He nervously adjusted his glasses and glanced at his bandmates. “We have two. We wanted to hear your thoughts to help make a final decision.”

“That sounds fair, let’s hear them.”

“Sure. Joe, Pete, you wanna go ahead?”

“Well mine’s ‘Blind Chance’, it’s a throwback to the chorus of an old song we used to play when we were first starting out. It’s from so long ago, I don’t remember the actual song, just that phrase,” Joe explained. He stood proud and tall, the name meaning more to him than ever with the competition he was currently facing. “Saying ‘Blind Chance’ reminds me of what Charnel House was founded on.”

Diana was bobbing her head with thought, “Ah, I see. We can absolutely work with that. I like it. Pete, what was the name you had?”

“Oh,” Pete was caught off guard with the focus shifting to him, “oh, right. The name I’m stuck on is ‘Fall Out Boy’.”

“That’s.. different. ‘Fall Out Boy’, you said?”

“Uh huh. Sorry, it’s kinda lame. It’s like this Simpson’s reference thing.”

Diana held up a hand to stop Pete from babbling. Her eyelids fluttered shut for a split-second, imagining how the two different names would appear in a variety of scenarios. The album cover, the marquee boards at local theaters, the t-shirts they were planning on selling - the name they chose needed to have the right feel and appeal. It had to be flawless. Both suggestions had certain qualities that she enjoyed, which only stressed her further because of the time constraints they had. This decision had to be made today or they would miss their upcoming deadlines.

“If it helps,” Andy said, the silence beginning to bother him, “I’m into the name ‘Fall Out Boy’. I slept on it and, it’s, it just makes sense to me. That’s my vote.”

Diana was grateful, the baggy sleeves of her blouse swaying when she stretched to give a thumbs up, “Thank you, I appreciate your opinion. How about.. Patrick? Do you have any input?”

Patrick swallowed an invisible lump. He took a step backward, gaining a physical and mental distance.

“You’re our frontman, your input matters,” Diana emphasized.

“I,” Patrick was unable to finish his sentence, or rather, he didn’t know how to, his gaze bouncing back and forth. He could see Joe’s annoyed expression alongside Pete’s confident one. Picking one band name over the other would have consequences that he didn’t want to deal with, and he hurriedly weighed them for comparison. Both options had an ugly side that he had no desire to expose. He took another step backward.

Being honest with himself, he was more partial to ‘Fall Out Boy’. In addition to his urge to support Pete, he had this sinking worry that ‘Blind Chance’ was too generic and forgettable. It didn’t sit well with him.

“Patrick,” Andy pushed, suspicious of his lack of an answer. 

Patrick switched to a dismissive stance, “I don’t know. I swear I don’t, I can’t pick between them. I like them the same.”

“That’s your jurisdiction,” Diana said flatly. She laced her fingers together and blew her bangs away from her forehead. “I suppose that means the final decision rests with me. If you boys will allow it?”

The group nodded in unison.

“Thank you. While it’s challenging to do this without upsetting anybody, it needs to be done. I’m going to come out and say my choice and we’re going to move on,” Diana said, the clicks of her heel on the hardwood floor mixing with her speech. “Seeing as how I already call you ‘boys’, I believe that ‘Fall Out Boy’ would work out well. It’s unique, and it should catch the attention of the right people.”

At the adjacent office table, her associates buzzed with subdued approval. Papers shuffling, they initiated a separate discussion about marketing the name.

“Goddamnit, this sucks,” Joe complained. He hadn’t intended to vent his frustrations aloud, however, he was apathetic about it once it was out. 

“I’m sorry. We don’t have the time to continue being nameless.”

“It’s fine, Diana.”

Pete had a bit of guilt creep up on him, and he slipped into the fray, “Hey, I won’t take credit or whatever. We’ll just say it’s a name we picked together.”

“All I want is for the crowd to be cool with it,” Andy teased with. He ruffled the back of Pete’s hair and they shared a chuckle.

“Yeah, hopefully,” Patrick said, still maintaining his facade of being torn about the name.

Diana clapped her open palm against the soundboard in excitement, claiming, “We’ll work hard and get the fans on our side. I know you boys can do this. _Fall Out Boy_ can do this. Let’s get that final song recorded and we can start running the presses.”

Pete and Andy swapped looks of delightful apprehension, and they huddled closer to Diana with individual questions and comments. Pete’s nosiness about how they would draw up the logo and Andy’s ideas for the track order on the record preoccupied Diana for the next minute or so. She was oblivious to hushed exchange happening on the offshoot.

“You’re okay with this?” Joe whispered. “The name is cool with you?”

Patrick kept his voice equally low, “I’m cool with it. We’re on a specific timeline, there’s not a lot we can do.”

“Argh, I know, you’re right.”

“Sorry, dude.”

Fighting and winning in holding back tears, Joe gently patted his friend’s shoulder and said, “Thanks for not always siding with Pete.”

\---

The Hideout, where Pete had first met his bandmates in his quest to scope out Patrick, was their host for their first official gig as Fall Out Boy. The name of Charnel House had all but been abandoned, save for the promotional posters that informed onlookers of why a band no one had ever fucking heard of was headlining a Friday night show. It was the last week of September and the audience was brimming with speculation. Was this name change legitimate, or merely a gimmick? Were the rumors of a recording deal true? Had more band members been replaced? People were desperate to know. From casual fans to the diehards, the box office was mobbed until tickets were sold out. 

The opening act was weak and useless in terms of encouraging a fun, passionate atmosphere. They scarcely made it off the stage without being decked in the head with a shoe or beer bottle. 

“Fuck, I’m not ready,” Patrick fretted, his guitar clutched to his belly. He was waiting for the stagehand to give him the signal, the rest of the band squashed behind him. “I’m freakin’ out.”

“We’ve got this,” Pete said, though he could hear his heartbeat ringing in his ears. He peeked over at the stagehand who had yet to beckon them forward.

“We better.”

“We’re okay, I promise.”

Joe’s fears came pouring out, “They’re gonna hate us, holy shit, they’re gonna hate us. Everyone’s just here to boo us and laugh.”

“They wouldn’t pay to do that, would they?” Pete wondered. “No way, they wouldn’t do that.”

“Doesn’t matter what they do,” Andy said, coercing them toward the tiny stairway that led to the stage, “we gotta go.”

Indeed, the stagehand had begun to wave them on. Nearby, Diana was watching them expectantly. 

“Good luck,” she told each of them as they passed her by. 

Patrick kept his head down while they made their entrance among the clouds of the smoke machine. His guitar was on the verge of escaping from his sweaty grip onto the floor. Fuck, his brain was burning with a thousand different ways of how this could go wrong. How this could ruin them for good. Disregarding the unfavorable possibilities of their performance, he knew he also had to keep things with Pete on careful terms. They were instructed by Diana to be less intimate for tonight. They were granted permission for a stray smooch or hug, and absolutely nothing else beyond that. Her reasonings were scattered, and she had reiterated the fact that they shouldn’t overwhelm the audience with everything that was being revealed. They had promised her that they wouldn’t go crazy with it.

He contemplated diverting from the original plan and warming up the crowd with an apology and a sob story. 

“There they are! Ohmygosh!” came a girl’s shriek in the first row, “It’s them! FALL OUT BOY!”

The venue became alive with cheers, the energy completely changing.

Patrick stood at the microphone, commanding the spotlights to find them after establishing that his bandmates were in place. Now totally visible, the cheers increased. It was absolutely deafening, not a heckler to be found. An infectious smile spread throughout the group. He thrust his fists into the air and howled.

Pete was chanting something with a flock of girls at the barricade, his bass dangling above them as he high fived whoever he could. Joe and Andy were busy playing a short introductory riff, the music pounding to the pulse of their fans.

“Hellooo, Chicago!” Patrick sang, loosely holding the microphone, his body relaxing. “We’re so very honored to be playing for your sexy faces tonight. Thank you for having us! Give it up for yourselves!”

Pausing, he permitted for a wild round of applause shouts of adoration. He bent at the waist for a thrilling bow that furthered the appetite for a memorable show. A bra was tossed at his feet.

“Rarin’ to go, gotcha,” Patrick said playfully. He snatched the bra and tied it to the microphone stand with a practiced technique. The straps were yanked to ensure that they were secure, his guitar was realigned at his hips, and he cried out, “We are Fall Out Boy! Most of you knew us as Charnel House, but that was then, and, fuck, this is NOW!”

He slammed his fingers onto the fretboard and strummed in sync with his bandmates. The beginnings of a mosh pit frantically opened its jaws in front of him, gunning for the action to come.

Patrick beamed and went on, “Though we want to apologize for the name change, we won’t apologize for rocking ‘til we fucking drop! Tonight’s about the music!”

The crowd was roaring with satisfaction. The walls vibrated, the ceiling threatening to crack.

“We’ve got a fresh, full-length record and a tour comin’ at ya in the next few months,” he announced, pleased with the positive reaction. Briefly, he turned to confirm with the band that they were officially starting the set, and then switched to address the room, “We’re locked and loaded! Welcome to the show, you bastards! Fall Out Boy’s here to save the day!”


	8. Chapter 8

“You look.. different.”

“Tell me more.”

“.. Pete, what the fuck? Are you wearing makeup?”

“Bingo! You got it.” Pete was, for whatever reason, teeming with pride. The rims of his eyes were stamped with a charcoal color. The lines were patchy in certain areas, no doubt the fault of a shaky hand. Though it wasn’t densely layered or extending more than a centimeter, it made him stick out tremendously. Eyeliner on men wasn’t a trend quite yet, and it could easily make someone a target for homophobic assholes. 

Patrick opened the front door wider and allowed Pete to enter, his eyebrows shooting skyward. He called into the kitchen to inform his mother that his friend was here and that he would be leaving soon. Annoyingly, his mother took the liberty of getting up from the living room and deciding to introduce herself. 

“Hello,” Mrs. Stump approached them with a wave, mostly wanting to see who the hell her child was running around with. She stopped cold when she saw Pete with his women’s pants, tattoos, and mischievous black eyeliner. Her shock was set aside and she attempted to appear unbothered, “You must be one of Patrick’s bandmates?”

“ _Mom_ ,” Patrick protested, not at all interested in playing host. 

“Hi, yep, I’m Pete, I play the bass in our band,” Pete grinned, extending his hand for a shake. The gesture was well-received and he went on, “You have a great kid here. He’s a musical genius and all the girls just love him. That’s some awesome parenting you’ve done. Ooh, and your lemonade Mrs. Stump - can I call you Mrs. Stump? - is absolutely delicious. I had some a while back when I was dropping Patrick off.”

The flattery was a hit, and Mrs. Stump was a box of sunshine, “My, I could say the same of your own parents, raising such a kind young man. Thank you. Did Patrick offer you a drink? I made a batch of cider in the slow cooker last night.”

“That sounds perfect, I would love to have a taste,” Pete nodded.

“We need to go,” Patrick whined, moving to stand in the middle of their nonsense.

“C’mon, Patrick, we don’t need to pick up Joe for another couple of hours. What were we gonna do until then, anyway?” Pete said, knowing that they had made loose plans to fuck in the backseat of Pete’s sedan.

Mrs. Stump beckoned Pete into the kitchen, chastising her son, “We always invite our guests in for a refreshment. Our household values its manners.”

“I can see that,” Pete complimented, “and if your cider is anything like your lemonade, I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave.”

Patrick sighed, slammed the front door, and trailed behind them.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Stump brought the cider out of the refrigerator and poured it into the slow cooker to reheat it. The chilled beverage began to brew back to life, Pete taking a seat at the wooden dining table and chatting as if they were old pals, with Patrick grumpily leaning on the wall and watching with disapproval. The room filled with the scent of spiced apples and the sound of pleasantries. Soon, the cider was served in mugs with cinnamon stir sticks and matching snickerdoodle cookies. 

It was a nice, if not strange way to spend the late afternoon. A full forty minutes passed before they were made to end their impromptu get-to-know-you session. 

“I completely forgot that I needed to pick up my dry-cleaning and this weekend’s groceries,” Mrs. Stump said, tapping her head to signal her absentmindedness. “I’ll have to run and do that now. Patrick, are you going to be here when I get back?”

“I dunno, when are you going to be back?” Patrick said. His relief was obvious, and he was ready to physically jam his mother into her car. 

“Maybe in an hour or so?”

“Nope, we’ll be gone by then.”

Pete could see how often Mrs. Stump had to deal with this snippiness, and he soothed, “But thank you again for the hospitality. You’re a lovely homemaker.”

“I appreciate that.”

Mrs. Stump gathered her purse and car keys from counter and said her goodbyes, emphasizing to Pete that he was welcome into their home at any time. She exited through the adjoining door that led to the garage, leaving them alone with the clouds hanging low in the sky. There was a glow that permeated the kitchen’s sliding glass door and illuminated their impatience. Once they heard wheels rolling down the driveway and onto the street, the entire mood shifted.

Pete’s hands cupped Patrick’s cheeks while the front of his shirt was crumpled and twisted by a pair of pale fists. They kissed, lips locked together in a decadent swirl of emotion.

“Why’d you do that?” Patrick fussed. He had broken away and was instead nuzzling the crook of Pete’s neck.

“Do what?” Pete guided them to the counter so that they had something to rest their weight on. 

“Nevermind, shut up.”

“Okay.”

Patrick pressed into him, reigniting their kiss and spreading warmth his own tongue drawing out Pete’s. They tasted each other slowly, valuing the nuances and grateful for their isolation. For the past week or so, they had been swamped with band practice and meetings with Diana. In fact, they had their schedules booked with those exact things in the next couple of days. It was draining the fuck out of them and they just wanted some time to themselves. Even in this temporary escape from the world, they found it difficult to defog their minds and relax. There always seemed to be something that needed to be done. 

“Missed you,” Patrick said, wiggling in Pete’s newfound hold on his backside. “But seriously, why are you wearing that shit?”

“Staying stuck on this, aren’t ya?” Pete was pretending to be casual about wearing makeup so openly, however, he was anxious to hear Patrick’s thoughts. 

“Yeah, ‘cause,” Patrick chewed over his next sentence, “I, I’m not sure if I like it or not. Christ, I’m really on the fence here.”

“Would it be better if it wasn’t smudgy? I kinda messed up, it could be way cleaner.”

“No, the smudging is fine. It’s very, very you.”

Pete noticed how softly Patrick was speaking, and how flushed his face had become. It was a sudden, welcomed sight. Though, he didn’t want to become too bold too early. They had time. He could see Patrick lowering his chin, hoping to find a distraction on the tiled floor below. He waited and, when there wasn’t a reaction, pushed for a level of closeness that they rarely shared. 

“Patrick?”

“What?”

“Can you look into my eyes?”

“Hah, how can I not?” Patrick joked. He traced a swirling pattern around the older boy’s collar bones and disobeyed the request. “There’s fuckin’ glitter in that shit, I swear.”

Pete chose to tread carefully, “You’re right about that. I take it you’re no longer on the fence. Do you just straight up hate it?”

“No, I don’t hate it. It’s basically much the same as me wearing nail polish.”

“Would you be mad if I wore this to shows and stuff?”

“What am I, your keeper?”

“You can be, if you want,” Pete said. He caught Patrick’s gaze and remained unflinching, the blue green color reminding him of the sea glass that sometimes washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan. He smiled.

Patrick gave a smirk in response, “Save the lines for your lyrics. You don’t need to use them on me. I already like you.”

“Despite the eyeliner?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Do I have to say it?” Patrick was on the brink of frustration, and he was aching for some action. “Pete, you idiot, of course I like how you look. I like your makeup.”

“Thanks, I thought you would,” Pete said gleefully. He pecked Patrick’s forehead. 

Patrick took this as his cue that they were done talking and practically leapt into Pete’s arms. Their mouths collided with excessive force, the corner of Pete’s lip cut by one of Patrick’s front teeth. It failed to faze them and Pete was eventually hoisting Patrick up with his hands supporting a plump ass together with a pair of Sharpie-embellished jeans fastened around his torso. They used the sturdiness of the counter to prevent them from falling over, and immersed themselves into a makeout session that the Stump kitchen was wholly unprepared for. Empty cider mugs were bumped into the sink, cookie crumbs were spread, and plenty of private sweet nothings stained the pristine wallpaper. Patrick’s mother would have fainted before she could finish gasping in horror. 

“Lemme get my belt-- Move, just-- Okay, I got it.” Patrick was freed and had his hardening cock sandwiched by their stomachs. The pressure was fantastic and he purred, “I haven’t cum all week. I’m so sensitive, it’s ridiculous.”

“Saving up for me?” Pete was thankful for the break, his tongue instinctually lapping at the blood from his cut. It wasn’t much, no more than enough to provide a metallic tang.

“No, I’ve been busy and haven’t had time to jack off. But hey, you’re better than my hand.”

“Wow, such the charmer.”

“Shut up, I was nice about your makeup earlier, gimme a break.. But yeah, I need you and I missed you so bad. Did I already say that?” Patrick babbled while he was placed back onto his feet. 

“You can say it again.” Pete’s right hand was caressing Patrick’s exposed erection, his own brushing against the fabric of his briefs.

“Missed you, missed you,” Patrick repeated, almost singing. The way Pete was touching him was heavenly, its tenderness and familiarity urging drops of precum to leak out. “Why are we so busy all the time?”

“Doesn’t matter, we’re here now. You’re with me and you’re lighting up this whole moment.”

Patrick was over the moon. The way Pete spoke to him, whether in these glimpses alone or through lyrics onstage, was unique. It was unlike anything he had ever previously encountered and he loved it. He knew he was young and probably wrong in assuming that they would maintain this relationship for years to come, and yet he couldn’t resist. If picturing Pete in his future was naive, then so be it. He was willing to go for it. The bliss he had experienced up to this point was enough to secure his path toward a singular goal. One where he and Pete were together.

Plus, without being involved with Pete romantically, the band was as good as dead.

Ignorant to what was on Patrick’s mind, Pete worked for every moan and groan that graced those rosebud lips. It was his own personal show, complete with uncensored commentary and brand new renditions of some old favorites. Hearing Patrick be voluntarily vulnerable was truly arousing. The bulge at the front of his pants was straining at the zipper, and he suppressed the urge to relieve the tension.

“Pete, yes, uhn,” Patrick encouraged, the strokes on his cock strong and well-timed. Fleetingly, he realized how he was offering zero reciprocation. He tried to move his hands downward only to be swatted away by Pete, who told him not to worry and deepened their kiss.

Patrick repaid the kiss tenfold, the resulting tingling sensation hitting his cock with jolts of pleasure. The touches were exactly what he had been lusting after. He had been horny since the last time he hung out with Pete, and it was ferociously refreshing to have him again. What he had said about missing him was pure honesty, and he wasn’t ashamed to share that.

Pete’s palm was damp with precum. It was helpful for lubricating the jerking motions he needed to get Patrick off, but a disaster for the dark sneakers he had on. There were several stains on his shoes that were seeping into the material. Whoops. He made a mental note for that to be the first thing he cleaned when they finished. Regardless, he knew some stains were worth the chance to bring Patrick to orgasm. And judging by how roughly his hand was being bucked into, they were right on the edge. 

“Cum for me, stop holding back,” Pete demanded. There was a swell at the head of Patrick’s cock and knew they were in the clear. He sustained his pace and watched a sensuous expression melt onto the younger man’s face.

“I’m not--” Patrick meekly argued, his spine arching and saliva trickling past his chin.

“You are!” Pete blocked whatever the hell he was going to say, his clenched hand filling with a sweet, sticky release. “There you go, look at you, you’re a mess.”

“I--”

“A hot-ass mess.”

Patrick was beyond flustered. His guts were rolling around inside him in a ball of happiness that he couldn’t seem to resettle. There were spots in his vision and the kitchen was oddly unfamiliar. He couldn’t think of anything clever to say or do, so he turned away. He gingerly grabbed the dish towel from the rack behind him and passed it to Pete. 

“Thanks,” Pete said. He accepted the towel and wiped them both clean. Finished in a flash, he chucked the towel into the sink and started to undo his pants. 

Patrick was in the middle of catching his breath, “Y-Yeah? Whatcha want? For me to blow you?”

“That’s exactly what I want. I was going to do the same for you, but, well.. you know?”

Not bothering with a retort, Patrick lowered himself onto the floor. It’s not like Pete was wrong. It was his own stupid fault for cumming too quickly. And he really shouldn’t be complaining, either. It had felt fucking amazing, and, actually, it was _still_ feeling amazing. The high from his orgasm hadn’t faded, making him lazily paw at the top of Pete’s open pants, his mouth moving to butterfly across the bare flesh of his navel. He peered upward.

“I swear, just seeing you on your knees gets me going,” Pete thought aloud. His cock was propped in one hand, waiting for the attention it desperately craved. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Patrick flitted his tongue onto silken surface at the base of Pete’s shaft, his tone flirtatious, “It’s natural talent. Mostly. Don’t think about it too much, stud.”

“We doin’ pet names now?”

“You wish.”

Pete inhaled, his lungs expanding and soaking in the perfume of Patrick’s proximity. He trembled at the mercy of that dancing tongue and its sultry slickness. His plans to hold Patrick by his dirty blonde hair were abandoned, now having to grasp the counter behind him for support. The polished granite wasn’t great for keeping a steady grip. The muscles in his forearms flexed with the effort and he kept his elbows near his center of gravity for better balance. With his entire length soon inside Patrick, he dared rock his hips back and forth. He was met with minimal resistance. 

“Nngh,” Patrick growled through his mouthful. He was cautious of how his teeth edged around Pete’s swollen cock, afraid that he might cause a cut in a similar to the one on his lip; which hadn’t stopped bleeding and was puffy with irritation. Embarrassed, he ignored his mistake and focused on what he needed to do. His tongue skillfully cushioned the impact of the thrusts, the back of his throat tickled with Pete’s tip. That same spot was hit again and again until he accidentally gagged. He pulled off sharply with a string of coughs.

“You all right?” Pete asked. He was panting, comforted that Patrick had kept one hand around the base of his cock, squeezing.

“I’m good,” Patrick choked out, another bundle of coughs following, “I’m good. Here, c’mere.”

Glad to do as he was told, Pete realigned their positions and returned to his former state of paradise. Subtly, he changed how he aimed his thrusts in order to avoid hurting Patrick a second time. He moved very deliberately, fucking Patrick’s mouth like it was the most important thing in the world. 

A minute or so later, Patrick had Pete’s thighs beneath his fingertips while his lips pressed tighter and tighter into his cock, sucking hard. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel any soreness or urge to take a break. He chalked it up to having a semi-regular source of sexual encounters. He was adapting to this. It wasn’t anything negative, just different from what he usually had going for him. It was fun, and, considering how Pete cried out his name with each lick or tug, the feeling was mutual.

“Shit, you’re so perfect. Fuck!” Pete had finally lifted his hands off the counter to hold Patrick’s hair. He made sure to clutch only the roots to lessen the pain. “I’m gonna cum, shit, I’m gonna cum in..!”

“Mm?” Patrick hummed.

“I’m.. gonna cum in that pretty little mouth!”

Pete’s frame heaved with the intensity of his climax, his voice cracking and hissing in an inaudible whisper. He largely missed Patrick’s mouth with how heavily he shook, the majority of his load spilling down the shorter boy’s shirt. 

Patrick sat back on his haunches, his exhaustion catching him and his mind in a thousand different places at once. Involuntarily, he said, “I, uhm, you’re the best I’ve had, Pete. By a longshot.”

“You,” Pete was spent, his core fluttering, “you, too.”

\---

“What you’re telling me, then,” Diana probed, “is that this is a real relationship? It’s not stage antics to draw a crowd?”

“Yeah,” Pete said quietly. He crossed his ankles and managed to combat the urge to push his bangs over his eyes.

“That’s right,” Patrick agreed, his legs nearly disappearing into the overly-feathery pillows of Diana’s office couch.

Diana tapped her nails against her forehead, her acrylics shiny in the fluorescent lighting. She exhaled, stressing.

“Joe and Andy know. No need to worry about how to break it to them,” Patrick added.

“That’s what I assumed,” Diana said.

They sat without a word. Outside of the building, downtown Chicago carried on noisily and paid them no mind. It was a rainy Friday, and everyone was poised to jump on the weekend. The city was in the full swing of autumn, with the winds and crunchy leaves making rather unwelcomed appearances. Things would simply become colder and darker from here on out. It always did.

“I’m not upset at you two, please understand that,” Diana told them. “Your trust in me is wonderful, and I thank you for that.”

“We figured it’s important you know so you can, like, help us with how we, uhhh..” Patrick couldn’t articulate his thoughts any further and rolled his shoulders with uncertainty.

“How we should proceed with the fans and the band’s image,” Pete said. He thought about Joe’s distaste for them as a couple and the swarms of girls that thrived on it. He quashed an oncoming shudder, asking, “So what do you think?”

Diana displayed the slightest hint of her usual smug attitude, “It’s going to help us. We’ going to make this into something big.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Charnel H-- Err, no, _Fall Out Boy_ has presales? As in, people are buying this record before it’s even out?” Joe was nearly bouncing on his heels, overjoyed. “No way!”

“That’s right. You boys have mostly yourselves and your loyal fan base to thank. I just do the behind-the-scenes work,” Diana said. She pushed the hefty laptop closer for them to inspect the spreadsheet’s numbers. With well over 200 presales for their record, their profits were already in the thousands. Once the record actually came out and they went on tour with their new line of merchandise, they would be rolling in dough. They would essentially be making money from their art. It was an enormous leap into the abyss, and they would be lying if they said they were prepared for it. Still, they were proud of everything they had done to achieve this.

“Wow,” Joe said, beaming. “And all those presales were sold through the link on Myspace?”

“Exactly.”

“So cool!”

Patrick craned his neck forward from where he was sitting to get a better view of the screen, his voice hoarse, “Shit, we better not disappoint anybody.”

“It’ll be fine,” Andy reassured. “Just relax, we need you healed up for this weekend’s show.”

“ ‘Kay, it’s on Saturday, right?” Patrick wanted to double check, slightly stressed about his voice recovering in time.

“No, it’s on Friday. You have enough time, though. As long as it doesn’t turn into a cold, I’m not too worried,” Diana said. 

Patrick bobbed his head in agreement.

Ever since yesterday morning, Monday, Patrick’s voice had been constricted and fatigued. It hurt pretty bad whenever he talked for more than a minute, and he was chugging water incessantly. He blamed the recording sessions and how they had been headlining or co-headlining a show every weekend now. The constant urge to practice wasn’t too gentle on his vocal cords, either. He swore he coughed up a bit of blood during last night’s attempted rehearsal. The band had cancelled the remainder of this week’s practice sessions on his behalf, and, though he knew that no one was angry with him, he couldn’t help but feel like he was bringing the group down.

“So, like,” Pete tried to articulate, “when can we hear the record? No rush if it’s not ready.”

“Good question. Let’s see here..” Diana brushed her fingers through the ringed binder she had brought with her, various papers and leaflets crinkling with the movement.

From where they sat in the corner of the Pick Me Up Café, they huddled forward in anticipation. Diana hadn’t been able to chat with them in the studio today, something about the carpets being redone, and had called them to meet up at the café. Conveniently, this was the same place where they had shot album cover. They knew exactly where to go and managed not to be late for once. Plus, the café had respectable food and coffee.

“For the release date, we’re looking at possibly mid to late October,” Diana said, holding open a thin notebook and reading the marks she had scribbled. “We’ll make time before then to hear it, and we can make any small changes.”

“Sounds like perfect timing for a Halloween-themed release party,” Pete said, half-serious. He winked at Patrick who was stifling both a cough and a laugh. 

“No, no,” Diana was quick to crush the idea, “that won’t do. We need to have a proper release in a controlled environment. Trust me, it’ll boost profits in the end.”

“He was just kidding. I think,” Andy said, rolling his eyes at his bandmate. “Sorry.”

Diana gave them a curt smile and went on with rummaging through and organizing her binder. She soon had a bright yellow paper laid out to face the group, its color contrasting sharply with the worn, grainy wooden table underneath it. At the top, the new logo for Fall Out Boy sat proudly with ‘Established 2001, Chicago’ printed above it. The names of a dozen or so American and Canadian cities were listed below the logo, each having a date and local venue to match. 

Joe was about to burst from his chair, “Hell yes! A tour schedule!? Who’re we playing with?”

“We’re in the big leagues here. You’ll be opening for Yellowcard and Less Than Jake on their dual tour,” Diana said pointedly. She nudged the schedule further across the table, ensuring they all had a fair view.

“That’s awesome..” Pete’s jaw was slack with disbelief, blinking at the month-long journey with two well-known bands.

“My parents won’t be happy I’m missing Thanksgiving, but hey, I’m sure they’ll survive,” Andy chuckled. He tapped at the edge of the paper, thinking, “Guess that means we’ll have to yank Joe out of school?”

“No one’s gonna miss me. Besides, this is way more important,” Joe said. He had pulled out his phone and was typing messages to his other friends, eager to show off how exciting his life was about to become.

Diana was unbothered, solely occupied with the business at hand, “You’re legal adults who have a signed contract. There won’t be any interference, and, if there is, I’ll be the one to deal with it. You’re my clients, and I’m here to protect you and your creative works.”

A pause blew over them, their waitress passing by to refill their mugs.

Joe continued to type away, “Mom and Dad have been coming to terms with the fact that I’m not going to college, so I’m not worried. I’ll get an excuse for school and they’ll just have to deal with it.. The sooner we hit our stride, the sooner I can get on with my life. This record’s gonna be huge.”

“Hopefully,” Patrick chimed in with a croak. 

“Now, for the logistics of the tour,” Diana began, tapping the schedule to regain their focus, “you’ll have to drive yourselves, and I won’t be able to accompany you. Nonetheless, I’ll be able to provide you with a van or bus of some sorts. I recommend that you switch off between drivers and pack plenty of snacks and water. The less you’re all behind the wheel and the less you need to stop for food, the better.”

“What about the other bands?” Pete asked.

“They have their own transportation that they’ll be sharing.”

“Oh.”

“And should we assume that we’re going to be sleeping in a van or bus?” Andy ventured. He would genuinely be surprised if they didn’t have to sleep in shitty vehicle bunk beds.

“Absolutely assume that because hotels are way out of budget. My apologies,” Diana replied.

“We understand, it’s not your fault.”

Diana thanked Andy and shifted, her volume increased to combat the noise of a large, bustling bunch of incoming customers, “You’ll play a thirty minute set each night. Ten songs will be your max, while you’ll realistically only be playing eight or nine with the adjustments and crowd conversations we’ll have between each song.”

“Okay,” Andy and Pete chanted in unison. They elbowed each other’s sides and tried not to knock over their coffee mugs.

“Yeah,” Joe said absentmindedly, phone refusing to leave his hand.

Patrick gave a thumbs up.

“Good,” Diana said. While her professional demeanor held fast, there was a tinge of unease in her expression, “The two other bands.. especially Yellowcard, they-- How can I put this delicately?”

“What is it?” Joe was abruptly invested in what was happening. He lowered his phone, his forehead creasing. It was eerie to see their normally cool and collected manager appear frazzled.

Diana reached for coffee. Just as she took a deep sip, the corner of her eye twitched toward Pete. Then Patrick.

“It’s, uh, it’s us?” Patrick scooted closer with his shoulders hunched. He didn’t dare look at Joe, the weight of his irritation merging painfully with Andy’s apprehension. “Me and Pete?”

“Yes,” Diana said. She inhaled to further explain, but was cut short.

“God, we haven’t even gotten started, and they’re complaining?” Joe huffed. 

“Not quite. They want you two to keep the expression of your relationship to minimum,” Diana said gingerly, her hands making a sweeping gesture.

Pete was sheepish, his stomach churning at the idea that other, bigger bands were hating on them for this. How lame was that? What right did they have to police Fall Out Boy? He knew it was because they were only the openers and therefore had to tiptoe around the audience that was mostly in attendance for the main acts. This wasn’t a smattering of basement shows with no rules or cover charge; they were working with the real deal now and had to respect the process. This whole thing was new territory for them. If the other bands wanted them to not be so loose or frivolous, they were going to have to live with it. It wasn’t going to stop him from doing the most he could with the leniency he was given, however, he was pretty fucking disappointed. 

“It’s fine,” Patrick mumbled. The pain in his throat kept him from going on a tirade about how obnoxious these restrictions were. He had plenty more to say other than ‘It’s fine’, but it was probably for the better if he kept quiet. Besides, maybe once he had a chance to cool down and process this, he wouldn’t be so bitter and willing to mouth off. 

“We’re climbing the ladder,” Diana reminded, “which means we have to play by someone else’s rules for a little while. Once we’re headlining our own tour, which I have no doubt you boys can do, we can have the final say on what is and isn’t appropriate. We have to be patient.”

Andy glanced at Patrick and Pete, almost warning them, “We don’t want to upset anyone. We’ll do what we can and won’t push any envelopes.”

“.. Sure,” Pete said. He knew Andy was being sensible, and he was appreciative for it. 

“Okay, so, when can we get into rehearsals? We get to rehearse with them, right?” Joe asked, toying with the bottom edge of the tour schedule.

“Yes, we’ll be working with both bands starting at the end of next week. There’s going to be four or five rehearsal sessions before we go on tour. We’re actually going to rent out a venue for you all to share for your practice space. I’ll have more details in a few days, we’re still negotiating prices,” Diana said. She held up a finger to shush them as she opened her writing pad to jot down a note about, most likely, the rehearsals.

“This is fuckin’ nuts, I can’t wait,” Joe said. He clenched his fist in excitement and was about to pump it in the air when a pair of cute girls walked by, watching him, and he immediately decided against it. His hands were soon folded in his lap.

“Hope you have the same attitude when you’re crammed in a van with all of us,” Pete taunted, though he being playful. 

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Can do.”

Diana, with her infinite neutral tendencies, redirected them back to the topic of logistics and their monetary potential as a group. They had a lengthy journey ahead, and they couldn’t afford to diverge from their set path.

\---

“How’s your voice?” Pete reached out, clearing the stray hairs from Patrick’s face. “Need another cough drop?”

“Pete, stop,” Patrick objected. He didn’t want to be touched. His throat still didn’t feel one hundred percent back to normal, nor was he in the mood to be acting sappy.

“I’m just--”

“I know you’re worried, don’t be. I’ve played shittier shows under shittier conditions.”

Reluctantly, Pete accepted this and allowed Patrick to have his personal bubble. Though he didn’t want their lead singer to strain his voice any more than necessary, it wasn’t exactly the best time to change their plans and get some rest. Tonight’s show was minutes away. They couldn’t disappoint their fans, especially since there seemed to be a fresh crop of them at every performance. He fidgeted with the strap of his bass around his chest, the stairs leading to the stage behind him. His ears perked at the sound of the announcer stirring the crowd with a countdown for the headliners to make their appearance. 

“We cool?” Joe approached them with Andy at his side, the low lights of the backstage area hiding their mild concern. 

“Yup,” Patrick replied. He turned and hollered at the nearby stage hand, claiming that they were all set. The stage hand then hurried to relay this information to the announcer, leaving the band with their final moments alone before they were consumed by the roar of the audience.

Andy tapped Pete with one of his drumsticks, “Don’t forget, you’re the one who needs to talk about the tour and album release date.”

“I got it,” Pete said, jittery with the idea of being the lone band member to address everyone. “I’ll do it justice, I swear.”

“We know, and we’re here if you have any problems.”

“You’re the best, man.”

Joe pretended to be exceptionally interested in his fingernails and waited for the stage hand to return. He didn’t care about any of this, and he was on the verge of telling Pete to man up. Thirty seconds later, when they were given permission for their grand entrance, he hopped and pounced onto the first step of the stairs.

“Let’s go, show time,” Pete said, mostly to himself. He carried the rear of the group, his feet sluggish until he reached the hardwood of the stage.

With their new logo printed on an enormous tarp hung up behind the drum set and the front row of fans sporting their latest t-shirts, the scene was perfectly prepared for their arrival. The instant Joe became visible, cheers and screams of delight launched into the air.

“ _Fall Out Boy, Fall Out Boy, Fall Out Boy_ !”

The band took their usual positions, and, once they confirmed with one another that their tuning was on-point, they motioned for the spotlight’s shine.

“Good evening, ladies and gents!” Pete greeted to the howls of way too many teenaged girls. He swayed and rolled his hips as his smeary, sparkly black eyeliner reflected the spotlight. “I hope you guys don’t mind, but I’ll be doing most of the talking tonight! My buddy Patrick here needs to save his voice for the music.”

“Oh, but I’m still rarin’ to go,” Patrick quipped from his own microphone, cranking out a quick riff to tease the crowd, “I’ll be singin’ all night long. You can count on that!”

Patrick swung around and began to play in unison with Andy and Joe, leaving Pete to finish their introduction. Their amps crackled with an intense rush of sound, and the venue became shaky with stomping feet.

“This first one is off our record dropping at the end of this month! We’re sure you’ll love it and fuck you if you don’t! Fall Out Boy’s ready to rock this straight to the top,” Pete boomed. He tore away and broke into song, picking up the bass notes that synched with the drumming.

Joe moved to the center of the stage, introducing the song with fierce, fast pre-chorus on his guitar. He had to be cautious of where he stood, the grabby claws of those at the barricade able to reach him if he was too close. The music poured out of him, with its punk, rock, and pop influences blending into a catchy melody that had everyone grooving like they were reliving a lost memory. It was a powerful way to dive into their set, and he was pleased to be the one to do it. He felt unmatched and adored. Somewhere at the edge of the pit, a young woman fervently called his name, and he redoubled his efforts for the ending of the pre-chorus. He headbanged relentlessly, dizzy by the time he returned to his original spot. 

Praying that his voice wouldn’t run dry, Patrick launched into the first lines. Pete’s poetry pushed past his bared teeth and assaulted the audience with vibrant metaphors and clever innuendos. The previously-unknown lyrics went off without a hitch, and he mentally applauded himself for not butchering anything. Debuting material was always a bit unnerving. He built his confidence with each word he sang, and was hitting his raspy vibratos by the end of the song. 

“Thank you! You mean the world to us, we couldn’t do this alone!” Pete declared into the microphone. His bandmates were readjusting their instruments during his second address to the crowd, with his own pegs frantically twisted in the necessary direction. “We’re gonna keep going here. We won’t stop if you don’t!”

Abruptly pivoting toward Andy, Pete yelled for him to count them back in. Andy grinned and raised his drum sticks.

“One, two, one, two, three, four!”

With Patrick singing, Pete leaned against him and nestled his head on the soft padding of the other boy’s jacket sleeve. The result was, obviously, a heightened sense of desperation to see more from the fans that put their relationship up on a pedestal. There was a round of ‘Oh my God!’ and ‘Look at them!’ that dominated the venue at a volume that rivaled the speakers above. It was welcomed, and Pete went further by kissing and tonguing the side of Patrick’s neck prior to pulling away. Their daring actions flared a series of somersaults in his stomach.

They continued on with the show and its wild nature, everyone in attendance devouring whatever was thrown at them. There was hardly any time for the band to breathe between songs. They were panting and soaking through their clothes halfway into the set. It didn’t matter too much, no, not when they were being endlessly encouraged and praised. Whether they were flaunting their classic jams or the unheard tracks from their record, they had no problem winning the room over. It was like a dream come true.

Taking swigs from a water bottle, Patrick noticed the stage hand signing at them that they could play, at maximum, three more songs. Fair enough. He nodded and relayed this Pete, who he handed the water bottle to. 

“Thanks,” Pete said. The remaining water was chugged and he tossed the bottle into the audience. He returned to the microphone and lifted his arms to bring the attention back to him. “We’ve got a few songs left and one big announcement for you guys! You wanna hear it? You wanna hear what we’ve got for ya?”

A restless fan urged him to get on with it, “Tell us about the FUCKIN’ tour, Wentz! We’re dyin’ out here.”

The crowd rippled with giggles and snorts. It wasn’t a terribly malicious heckle, although it was disruptive nonetheless.

Pete tried not to reveal how startled he had been, and instead went on with the announcement, “Right, so.. We’re goin’ on tour! After our record drops at the end of October, we’ll be crusin’ through the States and Canada as the openers for Yellowcard and Less Than Jake!”

He allowed for a reaction, as wasn’t disappointed by how loudly everyone was clapping, their babblings about how great the tour was going to be weaving with the background noise of drums and guitars. When things resettled, he tapped the microphone to add one last detail.

“And, duh.. This tour is starting in Chicago, and ending in Chicago!” Pete exclaimed. The atmosphere was more out-of-control than ever, with people shoving their way to the front and reopening the mosh pit. He realized that he needed to wrap this shit up, and hurried, “Thank you again! All the deets will be up on our Myspace and on posters around town! We’ll see you there!”

Pete turned and was met with Patrick. His bass came loose from his grip and would have smashed into the floor if not for his shoulder strap. He went to correct his hold and rejoined the song, his notes sloppy and quivering. 

“Look at you, holding down the crowd like a big man,” Patrick falsely gushed, closing the distance. “I’m willing to bet that _at least_ half of the people here think you’re cool. The other half thinks you’re a poser.”

“What about you?” Pete could taste the static being created by their instruments, their strings practically grinding into each other. In his peripherals, he was made aware of the venue’s gaping mouths and wide eyes. It was nice to know they were being watched.

“Are you asking if I think you’re cool or a poser?”

“Yeah. Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Well..”

Pete dipped his head downward, caressing Patrick’s hairline with his lips, “You better hustle up and decide. You’re about to sing.”

“Why don’t you convince me? Use those sexy words of yours,” Patrick shot back at him. His face was turning pink with heat, and he definitely wasn’t about to blame the spotlight.

Pete put on a cocky sneer and stuck a leg in the middle of Patrick’s. He curved toward the audience for a moment. The tension was so palpable it threatened to knock them over, and he couldn’t help wishing it would (that was the rational part of his brain pulling through). When he held his stance and was forced to make a decision, he chose the path less travelled. That’s what Fall Out Boy was all about, anyway. Or, that’s what he figured.

He kissed Patrick. They were stuck together for a decent five seconds, and only split apart due to Patrick’s need to start the song.

Despite there being a mixed reception, the overwhelming majority was positive.

“Shit,” Patrick blurted into the microphone, “that took the edge off! I’m good to go!”


	10. Chapter 10

Pete laid into the car’s horn, the obnoxious sound blending seamlessly with the atmosphere outside of Joe’s high school. The final bell of the day had just rung, and swarms of students were rushing around in order to leave campus as fast as possible. From where Pete had parked the car, against the curb with parents in their Subarus, they could see Joe hurrying to reach them. He appeared annoyed with the honking, and even more so with what they were saying.

“There he is! Lookin’ all handsome for his peers,” Pete jeered. He had moved to hang out of passenger side with Patrick, clapping his hands and snickering. “Did you have a good day at school? Homework tonight or no?”

“Can it, asshole,” Joe threatened, though the corners of his mouth were turned slightly upward. He opened the back door and tossed his backpack onto the seat before jumping in. “You guys are so loud, why? People are gonna hassle me about it.”

“You’re exaggerating. Besides, you’re missing school for a month. They won’t remember you be the time you come back,” Patrick said, rebuckling his seatbelt. 

“Tch, wouldn’t that be nice?”

“No? You’re weird.”

“He’s right,” Pete cut in. With his elbow, he nudged Patrick’s side and caused him to yelp. “You’re weird, Patrick. You should really channel that weirdness into a creative outlet.”

Patrick clicked his tongue, “Haha. Very funny. But seriously, I can’t believe we’re starting our tour this weekend! Our own _tour_.”

They all chittered with excitement, Pete turning the key to start the engine. He was about to roll up the windows when something caught his ear. He turned toward the passenger side, the side closest to the school’s front lawn, and noticed a young lady practically sprinting toward the car. Her gaze was dead set on them. Hushing his bandmates, he instructed them to take a look.

When she was less than ten feet away, she called out, panting and glistening with joy, “H-Hey! Joe! I was trying to catch you earlier.”

“What’s, uhm,” Joe was taken aback, his partially open window allowing for him to speak with her, “what’s up?”

He had no idea who this chick was. If he had to guess, judging by the pins on her denim jacket and buzzcut on half of her head, he would say that she was here because she was a fan of their music. He leaned in.

“Wow! Pete and Patrick, you’re here, too!? So cool! Could you, all of you guys, sign my backpack? I just heard your stuff last weekend and I’m obsessed,” the young lady raved. Without allowing an opportunity for them to answer, she shook her backpack from her shoulders and shoved it in their direction. She pulled a Sharpie from her pocket and offered it to them, as well. “I’ve got tickets to your show on Friday! I can’t wait!”

“We’re pumped for the show, too,” Pete said, appearing to keep his cool. He was the first to sign while Patrick and Joe sat and watched. The Sharpie’s black ink bled into the backpack’s cotton canvas. “You bringing any friends?”

“Yeah! My friend Sarah is the one who introduced me to guys, we’re going together.”

“Sick. What’s your name, by the way?”

“It’s Lacie.”

Joe blinked hard and dove in, “Right, I know you! We have global studies together. Why didn’t you say anything in class?”

“I get shy around our classmates. I dunno, I feel like they would think we’re weird for talking about shows and all that with everyone around,” Lacie said, uncertain. She beamed, seeing Pete add her name to his signing and passing it to Patrick.

“Yeah, sure, I get that,” Joe said. He began to mirror her happy expression, having never realized how cute she was before. 

“Can you guys tell me anything about the new album?” Lacie asked.

“Heh, nope,” Joe replied as he accepted the Sharpie and backpack from Patrick, hanging out the window a bit more, “it’s top secret. Sorry, you’ll have to wait for the release.”

“Aww, that’s okay.”

Patrick perked up, “But who doesn’t like surprises? Besides, if you like what you’ve heard from us so far, you’ll like what’s on the record.”

“Exactly,” Pete said. He grabbed the finished backpack and Sharpie from Joe to return them to Lacie with a wink. 

Lacie was nearly shaking with excitement, her palms damp when she accepted her items from Pete. Near the car, a few onlookers slowed their pace to see what in the world was going on. While it was mostly students, there was a supervising teacher was peeking over at them, clearly miffed.

“Stick around after the show, maybe we can hang for a bit with you and your friend?” Joe had his window down completely at this point, his chin propped up in an attempt to appear more mellow.

“Oh, shit, definitely,” Lacie said eagerly, “we’ll be right up front during the show, too. I, I’ll see you guys then!” 

“Sounds cool,” Pete affirmed. He adjusted the car’s clutch and shifted to get them going.

“See ya there!” Joe called, waving.

The car was soon rolling away with Lacie in the rearview mirror. She was positively glowing, and quickly took out her phone to text her friends.

“You’re _such_ a hottie, Joe!” Patrick mocked. He had pitched his voice up an octave to sound more feminine, “Your guitar is super sexy, ooh, I can’t take it!”

“Fuck you, dude,” Joe said with a smirk. 

“C’mon, don’t make fun of our fans,” Pete chastised gently. He reached out and grabbed Patrick’s left wrist when he moved to swat behind him at Joe, who was busily kicking Patrick’s seat.

Patrick exhaled dramatically, “I’m not making fun of her. Just her interest in Joe, haha!”

“Whatever, you’re jealous,” Joe snapped at him.

Patrick did a long, fake laugh. He patted the side of Pete’s head and undid his seatbelt. At the next red light, he spun around and leaned into the backseat area.

“What?” Joe disliked Patrick looming over him. He puffed his chest a bit and straightened his shoulders, assuming they were squaring up. “The hell’s your deal?”

“Nothing. Just know that I could never be jealous of a high schooler.”

“Will you cut it out with that crap? You’re barely a year older than me!”

“And?”

“I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t shut it!”

Pete tapped the breaks, causing both of them to lurch forward and bump their heads; Patrick on the front armrest and Joe on the backside of the passenger’s seat. He warned them, “That’s enough! You two are being douchebags. Fuckin’ behave, would ya?”

\---

“I don’t get why we have to keep practicing,” Joe whined. He stretched to pop his spine and undid the guitar strap around his neck. “We’re fine. Plus, we already practiced at the group sessions.”

“Yeah, _we_ practiced at the group sessions. You were too busy being star-struck by Ryan and Roger,” Andy chuckled. 

“They were amazing! Oh my God, how you not sing along to “Ocean Avenue”?”

“.. Probably because I good taste in music?”

“Ouch,” Pete said. Since it appeared they were taking a break, he eyed the couch’s center seat, which was, according to everyone, the softest place to sit in the Hurley household.

Joe stuck his tongue out, carefully placing his guitar on its stand and moving toward his backpack. He retrieved his wallet and counted off a couple of twenty dollar bills. Satisfied with what he had, he waved the money in front of his bandmates. He proposed, “Let’s order a pizza and some wings.”

“I don’t have any cash,” Andy shrugged. 

“No biggie, you always host, you don’t need to pay.”

“I’ve got tip money,” Patrick said, fishing out singles from his pockets. “I know I’ve got at least five or six bucks in here.”

“I can drive us!” Pete was on his feet and walking to grab his car keys.

“No way, I don’t feel safe in your car,” Andy said, completely serious. He moved into Pete’s pathway, blocking him. 

Joe agreed, “You drive like a psychopath. And, uhhh, didn’t you have to get gas? You don’t have enough to make it there and back with that one sixteenth of a tank you have.”

“How far away is this place, Joe? There’s a pizza joint on every corner here, pick one of those!” Pete was feeling irritated that he was going to have a longer wait before he was fed. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much he was starving.

“Those are all chains. We’re going to this mom and pop place over on 49th street.”

“That’s so far!”

“It’s delicious and I don’t really trust anywhere else. I’ve driven there a million times - you’d probably kill us if you had to drive that far.”

“All right, all right. I need to stay here, anyway,” Pete relented. “I need to restring my bass.”

“You mean that fucked E string of yours?” Patrick asked. He tilted his head in Pete’s direction, one eyebrow partially raised.

“Yep. I finally bought a new one.”

“I can stay here and help you..?”

“If you’re both gonna stay here, can you do me a giant favor and not steal my couch’s innocence?” Andy folded his arms, not happy with the arrangement and doing his best to be nice about it.

Pete put his hands up in defense, “Of course we’ll keep it PG while you’re gone. I swear.”

“You better.”

Patrick put a hand over his mouth, hiding his smile.

“Gross, let’s go,” Joe said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. He went to take the tip money out of Patrick’s hand and joined it with his twenties.

“Everyone cool with at least one veggie pizza?” Andy was toeing on his tennis shoes, their worn fabric difficult to slip into. 

“Are the rest gonna be pepperoni or sausage?” Patrick wondered. He didn’t wait for a response, adding, “Make sure the wings are hot! Like, buffalo hot. None of that bullshit honey hot.”

Joe sighed, anxiously pawing at the garage door, “You don’t need to tell me, I’m literally the one who showed you that buffalo is superior to barbeque. Andy, let’s go!”

“Okay, I’m set. Bye, guys!”

Andy and Joe exited their cozy little practice space and made a beeline down the driveway. Neither bothered to look back or even turn their head to talk to each other, fearing that they would see something that they had no intention of seeing.

\---

“How is your hair so.. nice? I love how it feels,” Pete complimented. His fingers were gliding through Patrick’s dirty blonde locks, chubby thighs squeezing either side of his waist. The fingers that weren’t petting him were instead holding him steady by the small of his back. “Did you sell your soul to the Devil? How can I get in on that?”

“It’s called ‘I don’t abuse my hair with heat and products’. No dark magic here,” Patrick said. He relaxed into the touch, his breathing gentle and measured.

“Hey, I think my hair looks good.”

“I never said it didn’t, you idiot.”

They pressed together, chapped lips instantly finding warmth and impatience. Their urge to envelope one another in a whirlwind of physical affection was intense, their sensibilities on the edge of imploding. Though they had been able to have more private time lately, they were still constantly surrounded by people who needed their attention. It drained them and created feelings of instability. Between Joe, Andy, Diana, their families, their own circles of friends, and their fans - the fatigue was undeniably real for them. If anything, they should have used this time to work in a brief nap.

“We promised Andy we’d keep it PG,” Pete reminded when he noticed Patrick’s fingernails under his shirt and dragging across his navel. 

Patrick grunted, “You promised him that. I didn’t say a word. How about we tell them I overpowered you?”

“You wouldn’t do that. Also, you’re assuming we’d get caught and have to explain ourselves.”

“Like you don’t want to get caught.”

“Not by them, haha!”

Patrick removed the ball cap he had been wearing, plopping it onto the cable spool table. He suspected it was going to be knocked off regardless, and he didn’t want it on the dusty garage floor. His fingernails continued to drag and he almost growled with excitement.

Pete took this as a signal that he wasn’t going to be able to diffuse the sexual tension. He allowed Patrick to push up his shirt past his stomach, exposing bronzy skin and the outlines of his abdominal muscles. He shuddered and returned to their kiss. It was a few short seconds later that their tongues were entwining with passionate, languid strokes.

“Mm, Pete,” Patrick groaned among their smacks and licks. “Come to my place after, I, mmph, I can sneak you in.”

“Yeah?” Pete’s tone was husky, his throat somehow too wet and too dry.

“We can start from the top, since we can’t finish here.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Patrick went on, shifting Pete’s left hand to rest on the crotch of his pants, “We can redo the whole thing. Get every detail just right.”

Flexing his newfound grip, Pete could feel how swollen Patrick was, the length of his cock traced against the fabric. Its familiar shape roused his own cock in anticipation. He was itching to settle on plans for later, “I can hang. But not too late, I’m supposed to go out to breakfast tomorrow with my family ‘cause my sister’s in town.”

“Bedtimes suck, I’m keeping you way past midnight.”

“Okay, boss. By the way.. I like what you said just now, it could be a song lyric.”

“You mean, ‘Bedtimes suck’?”

“No,” Pete suppressed the urge to immediately correct him, “earlier you said, ‘We can redo the whole thing, get every detail just right’. That was beautiful, I could totally see it as a chorus to one of our songs.”

Patrick went red with embarrassment, not having expected that. He looked away and squirmed. Half of him wondered if Pete wanted to simply get a reaction, while the other half of him thought he was being genuine. His mouth pursed with confusion and he couldn’t muster the question, and he refused to meet him face-to-face.

“For real, Patrick, it’s a solid lyric. It has this sweet, familiar ring to it,” Pete told him. He bounced his knees to get Patrick’s attention and cupped his backside to keep him steady.

Patrick wasn’t having it, “No, it was me trying to turn you on, nothing special.”

“Well, it worked. I’m hot and bothered, that’s for sure.”

“Shut it.” 

“C’mon,” Pete pushed, “we can dirty talk but you can’t take a bit of flattery? What’s wrong?”

“I dunno, it’s, I don’t like it. Makes me feel weird because I don’t label myself as a lyricist,” Patrick admitted. His forehead was soon buried in the couch beside Pete’s head. He was close to him, yet he chose to remain hidden.

“You don’t have to let me and Joe do most of the songwriting. You can contribute, too.”

“I guess.”

Pete went to pull him in again. Luckily, his actions were accepted and Patrick was no longer isolated among the cushions. 

It was easy to tell that Patrick wasn’t in the mood for talking, and especially not for some positive reinforcement. It was too bad that was the case, nevertheless, he wasn’t going to force a conversation on him. That wasn’t how their dynamic usually functioned. What’s more, their alone time would be up in about fifteen minutes or so. They shouldn’t waste it. 

Although they didn’t go beyond a heavy amount petting, they may as well have fucked. From their mussed hair to their blushing bodies, they would appear fresh out of the bed sheets to the uninitiated. The hickey on Pete’s collarbone didn’t help much, either. Their scents mingled on their clothes, and the garage space became pleasantly heated. The couch had actually been bumped a couple of inches from their movements. They were damning themselves with evidence, and they couldn’t bring themselves to care. They were out of breath and laying down when they managed to check the time.

“They’ll be here any minute now,” Pete stressed, finally sitting up and urging Patrick to follow. He wiped saliva from the corner of his mouth and reached into his boxers to make his erection less obvious.

“Ugh, fun’s over,” Patrick grumbled. He didn’t budge from his position on the couch, one arm lazily lain across his eyes.

“Get up, put your hat back on.”

“I will, gimme a sec.”

Pete shook his head. He reached for the ball cap and wiped a layer of fuzz off of the top. He began to hum and failed to realize that he was being spoken to until Patrick had to raise his voice.

“Hey!” Patrick fussed. He kicked at Pete, purposefully missing.

“Fuck, what is it?” Pete shot him a glare and threw him the hat. “You’re acting stupid.”

“I _said_ that I don’t think Joe should be one of our lyricists anymore.”

“What makes you say that?”

On the other side of the door that connected the washroom to the garage, Joe stood with his fist hovering, poised to knock. When he heard his name and a muffled discussion, he couldn’t stop himself from eavesdropping. 

He had lost the coin toss on the car ride home and had promised Andy that he would be brave and enter first. He was prepared to separate the two lovebirds if need be. Not that he would do much beyond shouting at them. That was about it. It wasn’t that bad, and he had gotten out of having to carry in the hot, greasy boxes of food. The situation wasn’t insanely terrible or whatever. 

But then he heard his name.

“Because Joe clearly isn’t as talented as you. And if you think that I have potential, what’s stopping me from exploring and learning from you?” Patrick pondered, tucking his legs beneath him once he was upright.

“So..? I’m open to that, but, like, are you saying you would want to replace him?” Pete was casual in how he structured his sentence. Obviously, this was due to him believing that no one could hear them.

“Basically. Three lyricists for one band is overkill.”

“Hm.”

Joe cringed and swallowed a lump in his throat. He knew he wasn’t misunderstanding them, the thin wood of the door hardly containing their loud nonchalance. 

“We’re the ones in the relationship. We’re the ones with legitimate feelings. That’s what made me say that line earlier, because I was thinking about you,” Patrick noted. 

“That’s true. We should try to write a song together sometime. Maybe when we’re on tour?” Pete suggested, his inflection unintentionally sly.

“I’m game!”

Silently cussing up a storm, Joe lingered on.

Pete was becoming brash, “I’ll bet you and I could make our best song yet. I can see it now, people will love it.”

“ ‘Cause people love Fall Out Boy. They love you and me,” Patrick emphasized. He laughed.

_Knock, knock, knock!_


	11. Chapter 11

“Say my name, say it like you want it,” Pete commanded. His fingers nearly slipped against the bare skin of Patrick’s hips, goosebumps waltzing between them.

Winded and with a rising temper, Patrick replied, “ _Pete_. I want it, you know that. Unf..!”

“Fuck, you look gorgeous. Don’t, don’t move.”

Though Patrick didn’t move, he couldn’t keep himself from tensing up when the tip of Pete’s cock pushed into him. The lube and foreplay were helpful, and, unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to completely relax him. His muscles were stiff and bones were shaky. He was unprepared and there wasn’t much they could do about it. Their irregular schedule had him going weeks without becoming fully intimate. Passing smooches and hugs were the sole guarantee. Therefore, today he was tight to the point that it was painful. 

Pete involuntarily indulged in the pressure around his cock, his eyes drifting skyward to watch the ceiling of his bedroom. His knees sunk further into the mattress, working to settle into a rhythm. He gave a tender thrust and he struggled to effortlessly slide in. The resistance from Patrick pricked at the edge of his thoughts. He became worried, and spoke up when the resistance continued. 

“Can I, how’re you holding up?” Pete asked. He held still and placed a hand on his lover’s lower back.

Patrick pushed air past his nostrils, “I’m good. It’s been awhile, that’s all.”

“I can slow down?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Pete resumed his rhythm at an unhurried, more focused pace. He was able to ultimately push inside within the next minute, and made sure to double check with Patrick that everything was comfortable for him. When he was given the green light, he began to rock back and forth, his hip bones bumping into Patrick’s backside. He chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from howling about how divine this whole experience was, despite the house being empty. Besides, he wanted to hear Patrick’s melody of whimpers and gnashed words. Nothing else could compare.

Patrick’s body wasn’t as strained as it previously was, and he stabilized himself by grabbing the headboard. With Pete nestled inside him, he could enjoy the sensation of being full and warm. The dull ache from earlier remained, and he ignored it. He had dealt with worse for people he liked less than Pete. He didn’t mind enduring a hiccup in the process.

That didn’t mean wasn’t going to speed things along.

“Pete, I can’t..!” Patrick mewled, arching and knocking his head back.

“Wh-What is it?” Pete was alarmed, assuming that there was a problem. “Patrick?”

“I can’t,” Patrick repeated, “I can’t live without your cock. Fuck me, please.”

“Huh? Oh, of course, baby. I’m here for you.”

Elated, Pete’s thrusts became stronger and more frequent. He lived for Patrick’s naughty side. The perverse shit he came up with laid the foundation for the majority of his masturbation fantasies. It seriously got him going and seemed like it only came out on special occasions. He supposed that their last fuck before heading on tour was a special enough occasion. No way was he about to complain.

“God, you feel amazing,” Patrick said in a half-truth. He wiped his brow and choked down a whine of distress. “I need you so bad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete answered hungirly. His voice was accompanied by the squeaking of the bedframe quivering beneath their movements.

They stuck to one another through a thin layer of sweat. Patrick’s sweat was clammy while Pete’s was perfectly toasty. They stayed in synch and carefully moved into a position where Patrick was resting completely against the sheets with Pete dominating the space above him, admiring him with unbridled enthusiasm. Somewhere behind them, a pillow fell to the floor.

Patrick’s tailbone was sore, the radiating pain traveling throughout his nerves and distracting him from the last lingering waves of pleasure. He was abruptly overwhelmed by a rigid, nauseating knot in his stomach. He grimaced and let out a soft cry that could easily be mistaken for enjoyment. A particularly hard push into him caused him to jerk his head to one side. Upon realizing that Pete was pursuing direct eye contact with him, he gave a brief smile before smushing his face into the sheets. He was exhausted. 

“C’mere, c’mere,” Pete urged, bending to offer a heartfelt smooch. The urge had struck him out of nowhere, and he had every intention of carrying it out. He puckered and curved further inward. Their lips met with a slight delay, Patrick’s head being at an awkward angle, and they broke apart a few seconds later. It was too much effort to change positions again, so they left it at that. 

Returning to press his face into the sheets, Patrick could have swore that he could feel Pete’s cock growing with a flutter of satisfaction. He was raw and sensitive and he was struggling to keep his cool. The damp, salty streaks dripping from his pores were nearly enough to blind him, the corners of his eyes stinging with misery. He parted his lips to speak and let out a little puff of breath, unable to get a single word out. 

Pete was happily losing himself in the euphoria. He was oblivious to Patrick’s eagerness to end things as quickly as possible. How could he be aware of it when Patrick wasn’t communicating with him? It was something that wouldn’t ever occur to him otherwise. He wasn’t a selfish lover, no, he was merely caught up in the treat that was Patrick’s deliciously full ass. The sweet talk combined with all his adorable sounds was the icing on the cake for him. He was blissed out.

“Pete, please,” Patrick managed to grit past his clenched teeth. His erection had all but disappeared. He was utterly limp. “I’m not, I’m, _please_.”

“Goddamn, unh, God, you’re gonna make me cum.” Pete was trembling, his following statement shaky, “I, I need you s-so bad, you’re gorgeous.”

“Just for you.”

“Yes, oh, fuck yes!”

Patrick was on the verge of admitting his pain and asking Pete to stop. His chin lifted from the indent it had made on the bed, its numbness temporarily distracting him from the sharp spasms plaguing his backside. A hefty thrust nauseated him, his face shoved downward once again. He chomped down on his tongue, ready to give in. He winced and began to form a thought on how to place his oncoming plead in the best light.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to waste any effort speaking. 

With a faint rasp in the depths of his throat, Pete became motionless and poured into Patrick. It was more than either of them was expecting, with the condom soon overflowing and proceeding to spill onto the bare canvas of their skin. It was a sloppy testament to how overwhelmingly intense Pete’s heart was tugging toward Patrick. He cared about him. More than the band or his friends or, hell, his own family. He was smitten.

Patrick was frantic to cover himself after he was released from Pete’s hold. His mind raced as he tried to find an excuse to explain his deflated cock.

\---

“Aren’t you cold?” 

“Andy, I told you, I’m not cold.”

“Uh huh. You’re shivering, though.”

“I don’t care,” Joe said with a dismissive wave. He crossed his arms more snugly against his chest, the sleeves of his ‘The Aliens Sent Me’ t-shirt doing nothing to defend him from the low October temperatures. “I’m not ready to back inside yet. Just gimme a minute, I need some space. It’s fuckin’ cramped in there.

Andy’s disbelieving expression lingered, and he wondered, “Should I leave? I need to use the restroom, anyway.”

“.. No. Can you stay out here?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Mirroring Joe’s stance, Andy drifted onto the concrete wall of the venue. They were standing just past the backdoor of The Hideout, where Pete had first met his bandmates, and were isolated from the madness happening inside. Their ‘Goodbye’ set to kickoff their tour in Chicago had ended around ten minutes ago. After playing a hasty encore, they allowed themselves to be swarmed by fans begging for autographs and photos before escaping stage left. It had been a wild ride and had given them a taste of what was to come for the twelve city-long tour that was to come.

Currently, the crowd was going crazy over Less Than Jake. The building’s rickety foundations caused everything to have gentle wobble, moshing teenagers and stage diving morons being the main source for the movement. Eventually, Yellowcard would close the show with a dozen or so songs. Yellowcard was the reason for most of the audience in attendance, and, presumably, it would ignite the highest levels of hysteria of the night. Then they would pack everything up and move onto the next tour stop to repeat the cycle. They wouldn’t be finished until after the Thanksgiving holiday.

“So, Detroit?” Joe was aimless, not meaning anything by mentioning their next stop. His fingertips flexed and created impressions on his forearms, his apprehension spiking. “Never been there. Heard it’s dangerous ‘n stuff.”

“Don’t wander off with strangers, that’s all. We’ll only be there for one night, we’ll manage,” Andy reassured. He wasn’t particularly interested in the cities that were on the tour, only because he knew there would be minimal time to explore them. There wasn’t much of a reason to bother.

“Bleh,” Joe muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Andy folded his hands into the pockets of his jacket, the satin lining unsuccessful in warming him. He glanced over Joe once. Twice. It was difficult to tell if the guitarist had something going on in his head or if he was putting on the sullen, aloof attitude that had become a part of him ever since Pete had freed them from the underground scene. Honestly, it was a fifty percent chance for either one or the other. He hesitated, and, in a split-second decision, chose not to make a comment. 

Joe fucking wished he would. There was a desperation for someone, _anyone_ to get in his face and grill him about why he was having an ungodly amount of mood swings and irrational urges (like earlier tonight, when he spat a mouthful of energy drink at the stage hand after realizing he screwed up his guitar’s tuning). He wanted to be told that he was acting careless and being inconsiderate. He needed to hear it. 

But he wouldn’t hear it from Patrick. Or, clearly, not from Pete. He would burn Fall Out Boy to the ground before he would allow them to pity him.

“It’s,” Joe inhaled slowly, “a good crowd in there. I’m glad the locals want to keep supporting us.”

“Sure, they’ll always be here. We have a loyal base,” Andy nodded. 

“Did you, y’know, see how nuts people were going over your drum solo?” Joe shifted to pat his bandmate on the back, not wanting to make it seem patronizing. “Shit was impressive.”

“It wasn’t exactly a drum solo, mostly me playing extra loud with you guys doing a pitch change. Thanks, though,” Andy said. A crisp breeze flowed above them and forced the hairs on the back of their necks to stand up. Without thinking, he turned when the breeze hit him, the urge to return inside more heightened than before. “Maybe when we get back from the tour, we can do a basement show and make sure that only the hardest of the hardcore fans find out about it.”

“That’d be cool,” Joe said flatly. He kicked at the ground, crushing a discarded cigarette bud with the heel of his shoe.

Andy made an attempt to get them out of the cold, “Speaking of fans, there’s a few that are backstage right now. They’re not rabid or creepy, I talked to them a couple minutes ago. They brought some flasks of rum.”

“.. Yeah?”

“Swear. And I’ll let you have my share.”

“You don’t drink.”

“I don’t, it was a joke,” Andy said with a subtle eye roll. “Joe, come on, let’s go inside.”

Joe frowned, “Nah, I’m not in the mood. You go.”

“Will you just get in here? We can’t have you getting sick, quit being stubborn,” Andy hit back at him. He snagged the handle of the backdoor and flung it open.

A rush of heated air blasted them both, and Joe started to march inside, scowling as if he were doing Andy a rotten favor.

\---

“Ahahaha! Ohmy-- Ahahaha! It’s too much, holy shit,” Patrick having trouble curbing his amusement, “Wow, that’s fuckin’ funny. I’m-- Oooh, it’s Andy! Joe’s here, too, perfect!”

Confused as to what they were walking into, Andy and Joe gave a small chin tilt of acknowledgement. They had re-entered the venue and were standing in the midst of the backstage chaos.

“Guuuys, come take a pic with us,” Patrick chirped. He took Joe by the wrist and yanked him to where a pair of mildly starstruck fanboys were waiting next to the spare sound equipment. “They brought a camera and everything, it’s awesome!”

“Wait, what’s happening?” Joe’s question was lost among more of Patrick’s unbridled giggles. 

Patrick and Joe were at least twenty away from Pete and Joe. This enabled the latter pair to chat about the former without having to whisper. 

Pete’s bashful features were accompanied by an apology to Andy, “Sorry, whatever he had before we went on is getting ramped up by that rum. He was drinking it like water right when you left.”

“It’s no big deal. We’re done for the night, we don’t need him sober,” Andy said, hoping he appeared unfazed. 

“Heh, exactly. Let’s go do that photo, those guys have been waiting.”

“Pete, erm, real fast, can you not tease Joe or give him a hard time? At least, not right now?”

Pete was taken aback, one foot already poised to step in the opposite direction. He stopped short.

Andy went for a deeper explanation, “He’s feeling kinda off. I was talking to him outside and he’s on edge about the tour, I think. I don’t want him blowing up at you or Patrick when we’re about to leave for a month.”

“I, okay,” Pete stumbled, his attention fully on Andy, “I won’t. And I’ll keep Patrick in check. I won’t say anything about it to him, since he’d probably repeat back at full volume, but I’ll keep him from acting overly-stupid.”

“I appreciate it, man.”

“No problem.”

They took a look at the disheveled, grinning mess that was Patrick prattling on and on with Joe and his newfound friends. His tipsy stance was getting worse with each swaying motion, and he refused offers for a sip of water. Plus, he had yet to notice that the other half of his band hadn’t joined them. 

Pete ventured into potentially dangerous territory, recognizing that he had the time to do so, “Did Joe say something specific that made you notice that he was upset? About me or Patrick?”

Andy scratched at his patch of peach fuzz, commenting, “No, he didn’t. I picked up on him being weird, that’s basically it.” 

“Do you think he’ll be all right on the tour?”

“Who knows? You could always ask him.”

“I don’t know..”

Andy squinted at him and strained to not sound accusatory, “When was the last time you talked to Joe? In a one-on-one type of way?”

“I’d say, like, a month or two ago?” Pete offered. His lips squeezed into a thin line. He had no idea, truth be told, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they answer here was that they had never had an actual conversation without a third party.

“You know you can do that, don’t you? Talk to him?” Andy was disappointed, and it was beginning to cut through his neutral demeanor. “He’s supposed to be a person you can talk to and trust. I don’t mean to preach, but we’re a team here.”

“No, you’re right. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, especially not to me.”

Stealing a peek at Joe, Pete could see how patiently he was standing beside Patrick and tolerating his alcohol-fueled babblings. It was funny, and also not the easiest thing for the average person to take in stride. He sympathized and had a twinge of affection in his gut. He returned to the topic at hand, “I’ll try and talk with him later this week. I could buy him a beer at one of our next stops?”

“Not a bad idea,” Andy affirmed. He expected that Joe would be more receptive when free drinks were involved.

“It’s annoying,” Pete said, his bashfulness making a reappearance, “I know I can be a dickhead to you guys sometimes. I get lost in Patrick and tend to forget about everything else.”

“It’s not that bad. From what I’ve seen, anyway.”

“Phew, that’s good.”

“Don’t get handsy in the van, and it’ll be fine,” Andy reminded him. He relaxed and released his forehead from its concerned ripple of wrinkles. 

“That’s doable,” Pete said. “I’d dare to guess that we’re out of the honeymoon phase at this point. And that’s not a bad thing. It’s been, what, six months?”

“Wow, glad you’re going steady.”

“Hell yes. It’s great, and I really love--”

Joe shouted playfully, “Yo, we’re takin’ this photo whether you two are in it or not! Move your asses over here!”

Pete and Andy dropped their discussion and silently agreed to pick up where they left off whenever the need may arise. Which would ideally be never. They made a beeline to the waiting group and struck a pose. The two fans were kneeling at the front with the half-empty flasks in hand, one of them with their arm outstretched and holding a digital camera. Patrick was doing the universal sign for eating pussy while Joe was playing an air guitar, both looking nothing short of absurd. This left Andy to stand normally with a smile and Pete contemplating on providing Joe with a set of bunny ears - he was right behind him and in the perfect position.

In a moment of clarity, he understood that making bunny ears on Joe for a photo wasn’t the best course of action he could take for the sake of their friendship. He didn’t want to risk pissing him off. 

Instead, Pete gave a lame thumbs up that was made worse by his eyelids falling shut when the camera flashed.


	12. Chapter 12

Somewhere off Interstate 57, Andy’s eyelids were drifting open and shut. A waterfall of yawns continuously washed over him, drenching his body with fatigue. His fingers gripped the steering wheel more and more loosely with each passing streetlamp.

He had been driving for nearly five hours straight. They had just finished up a show in Michigan - uhhh, about five hours ago? - and were on their way to Cincinnati. The fans had been fantastic, especially seeing how this was their first time playing outside of Illinois, and they were beyond grateful to be on this tour. They were even selling their t-shirts and posters at a rate that could cause them to be out of stock before their final city. Their names were on the lips of every quivering teenaged girl in the front row, their praises sung louder than the microphone could combat. 

But damn, this driving thing sucked. The smell of aged fast food wrappers and cheap cologne sprayed on top of body odor was nauseating - or, he assumed it was. He had gone nose-blind at this point. Even if the van had been free of any nasty smells, they wouldn’t be able to escape the cramped seating that demanded a whole set of stretches each time they filled up on gas. Nor would they be able to ignore the incessant squeaking from under the hood. It wouldn’t come as a shock if the wheels flew off prior to the tour’s last stop.

Too bad the rental hadn’t come with a driver.

“Pete..?” Andy called faintly over his shoulder. The gray clump of blankets that was their bassist began to wiggle and untangle. “Pete, we gotta switch. I’ll pull over here at the next rest stop.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pete said groggily. He sat up and attempted to flatten the enormous cowlick on the back of his head. “I keep driving straight, right? Until I see an exit for Columbus?”

“ _Cincinnati_ ,” Andy corrected.

“Oh, my bad, that’s what I meant.”

“Please don’t drive us to the wrong place.”

Climbing over into the vacant passenger’s seat, Pete brushed him off, “I won’t, I won’t. I know it’s Cincinnati. I forgot for a sec.”

Andy resisted the urge to call him a name. He soon spied a sign for a rest stop and was pulling into the nearest parking spot, wedged between a semi truck and a camper. The van was shifted into park and he hopped out, taking a moment to crack his joints before he slid open the back doors. He shushed whatever the hell Joe was complaining about and told him to make room.

“We good back there?” Pete adjusted the rearview mirror and clicked his seatbelt into place. 

“I think so,” Andy answered. He hunkered down and ignored how close Pete’s sleeping setup had been to Patrick’s. He burrowed into his own blankets and prayed they wouldn’t wake up in Columbus.

“Hey, uhm,” Pete’s tone was shy, “Patrick, you wanna sit up here with me?”

“Mmph,” Patrick huffed, in the process of waking up. He coughed once or twice and then rubbed the side of his neck, stiff from the van floor.

“I could use some company,” Pete went on. He turned around to smile at the younger man.

“ ‘Kay,” Patrick agreed.

Andy and Joe shared a suspicious expression. They turned to face forward, each ready to protest.

Obviously, Joe had to go first, “Can you not give each other handjobs while we’re in here?”

“We’ll wait for you guys to fall asleep, don’t worry,” Pete returned the rudeness. “Plus, we don’t want to accidentally turn you on.”

“Ew, the fuck, c’mon!”

“I’m kidding, Joe.”

“How am I supposed to know that!?”

Headache beginning to pound, Andy cut in, “Aside from that, we should really let Patrick sleep. He needs to make sure his voice isn’t strained or anything.”

“I’ll be okay. Swear,” Patrick said. He grabbed his jacket and crawled toward the passenger seat.

“What about--” Andy stopped short.

“It’s fine, I don’t need to be babied.”

“.. All right then.”

Joe left his mouth wide open in surprise as Andy shrugged and gave up. 

“Let’s hit the road. I’ll try not to tap the breaks too much, haha,” Pete joked, only slightly diffusing the tension. He shifted the van into reverse and was filled with joy when he felt Patrick nestled into his arm.

Joe’s jaw clamped shut and he reclined into his pillow. He rolled to stare up at the ceiling and realized how awake he suddenly was. Annoyed, he wondered if he would be able to fall asleep, his brain already anticipating the loudness of Pete and Patrick’s impending conversations.

He wavered. What if he stayed quiet and waited until they thought he was sleeping? He could potentially hear them talking shit about him, like that time in Andy’s garage. He could catch them in the act and tell them what assholes they were. He would be putting them in their places and making himself into the good guy.

That was one possibility. The other one was him having to listen to their sweet nothings and their sexual banter. Maybe worse. He shuddered. 

After a brief mental debate of the situation’s pros and cons, he decided it wasn’t worth it. What would he gain beyond an instant of smug satisfaction? Fall Out Boy wasn’t going to magically dissolve due to a bit of internal squabbling. Though his feelings may be hurt by Pete and Patrick’s words, that wasn’t enough for him to demand that they start a group therapy session or pledge to be perfectly nice to one another. That’s not how the punk scene worked. That’s not how boys their age worked. That’s not how any of this worked. He couldn’t be a crybaby when he wasn’t being directly bullied. Fuck, was what Pete and Patrick had said in the same category of bullying? He didn’t know.

Joe chose not to be bothered by them. For now, anyway. All that mattered was that he was here and rocking this tour harder than he could have imagined. He didn’t need anything else.

The final thought he had before drifting off was how loud and intense he was going to be at tomorrow’s show.

Patrick wanted to fall back asleep, and, of course, he couldn’t. Pete’s arms weren’t actually that comfortable and the current road they were on had an obnoxious amount of bumps and potholes. He sighed, surrendered, and sat upright.

“Can’t sleep?” Pete chuckled to himself, assuming that he was going to be frequently asking that question on this tour.

“Yeah,” Patrick replied. He blinked at the dreary asphalt in front of them, illuminated by the van’s headlights. “And, like, I can’t help but be all perky and shit when I’m next to you.”

“Niiice, tell me more.”

“No. Use your imagination, I’m tired.”

Pete was quick to remind him, “You can go lie down for a nap if you’re gonna be a sour grape.”

“ ‘Sour grape’? I’m sorry, what? Who says that? You’re an old man,” Patrick said. He leaned in and pinched Pete’s nearest cheek. He dodged a swat aimed at him in retaliation and stuck his tongue out.

Behind them, Joe exhaled in irritation. 

Dramatically, Patrick held a finger to his lips and made a light ‘shush’ sound. They were out of luck until their backseat passengers were fast asleep.

\---

“.. You know you’re mine, right?”

“Wuh?”

Patrick repeated himself, “You know you’re mine, right? You don’t belong to anyone else.”

“I, I know. I wouldn’t dream of looking at anyone else while I’m with you,” Pete affirmed. He kept his eyes on the road, though he dropped one hand down to hold Patrick’s.

“Good,” Patrick said, choosing not to nitpick at how it was partially implied that they wouldn’t always be together. “I’m glad we’re together. You’re the best I’ve ever had. Not just in bed, the way you talk to me and care about me, too.”

Pete was melting, loving the unexpected positive emotional outpour. It was made a thousand times better by the oncoming sunrise to their left. Their surroundings began to glow, their cracked leather seats taking on a warm swirl of pink and orange. 

“I mean, I’m young enough to know that I don’t understand how everything works, but I’m old enough to know what I want. And you’re what I want,” Patrick went on, almost speaking to the melody of Andy’s heavy breathing and Joe’s occasional incoherent mumbles. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I don’t know what the band would do without you.”

“Patrick, that’s so sweet. I.. As far as the band goes, I don’t do much aside from scribbling on paper until some decent lyrics come out. You’re the one with the beautiful, irreplaceable voice,” Pete said. 

“No one would listen to me if I didn’t have anything good to say.”

“They would.”

“Pete, take the fucking compliment and shut up.”

Defeated in the most flattering way, Pete closed his mouth and slipped into a smile.

\---

Outside of the mid-sized Cincinnati venue for tonight’s show, all of Fall Out Boy aside from Andy (his stomach was acting up after a particularly oily batch of Wendy’s french fries) stood greeting a small batch of fans. Hardcore fans. 

“Can’t believe you’re following the entire tour. That’s so cool,” Joe said with genuine surprise. He returned a signed copy of their album to the near-shaking hands of the young lady who it belonged to. She had introduced herself as ‘Amber’ and the only one of her friend group who wasn’t obsessed with Pete or Patrick. He had taken an immediate liking to her, and was more than happy to have every last ounce of her focus.

“We’ll be following you guys until the New York show. We can’t go to Canada ‘cause we don’t have passports,” Amber said. She brushed away a stray blonde bang from her forehead, and then toyed with her hoop earrings. “But it’s okay. We’re just glad we caught you tonight. We wanted to say good luck.”

“Aw, thanks. We appreciate it. Are you gonna try and get up front during the show?”

“Hopefully. It gets crazy near the stage sometimes.”

Joe nodded, “True, although we usually watch out for cute girls like you and make sure you don’t get hurt. Well, I do, anyway.”

Beet red, Amber turned to the side and tugged on the sweater of her other friend. It was a gut reaction because she didn’t know how to respond to her favorite band member’s flirtatious attitude. She then buried her face in her friend’s neck once she had her attention. 

“What, Amber?” her friend wasn’t pleased with the fact that she had to pause her conversation with Pete and Patrick. “What? Why’re you pulling on me?”

“We were just talking about how the band tries to keep pretty girls safe in the pit,” Joe offered. He leaned in a bit and didn’t remove his gaze from Amber, who was peering out from behind her friend’s arm. 

“Oh? I like the sound of that.”

Joe chewed the inside of his cheek for about half a second before he decided to go for it and let these lovely ladies know that after-show arrangements could be made. He could totally have Amber’s friends distracted by the rest of the band while the two of them snuck off somewhere private and poorly-lit. They wouldn’t need much time, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, and he already had an unopened bundle of condoms in his wallet. Maybe they could even do it in the van? That could work. He could picture the whole thing in his head, and he cleared his throat to make it a reality, “Ah hem.”

To the right of where the group stood, the ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ door swung ajar to reveal Diana with a clipboard in one hand and her phone in the other. She silently beckoned the band inside the venue with a jerk of her head. Reluctantly, she was obeyed. 

“I’ll try and see you later, okay? Flag me down during the show, if you can,” Joe said gently. He gave Amber’s shoulder a squeeze and trailed after his bandmates. 

“Yeah, awesome, bye,” Amber blurted. She was stiff under Joe’s touch, feeling like jelly once he released her. A pleasant buzz washed over her and she rejoined her friends. 

She followed them back to their car. Something compelled her to glance over her shoulder, and she realized that Joe had the door propped open and was waving to her.

Without a second thought, she blushed and returned the wave. 

“Damn, she’s hot.” Joe’s body language was triumphant, his backside bumping the door to shut it closed. He practically pranced past the stage’s drawn velveteen curtains, catching up to everyone else. His voice was kept low as he walked next to Pete, bragging, “See how fun things can get when you’re not attached?”

Pete withheld a rude comment and let him have his little moment, “Hell yeah, man. Look at you, gettin’ the babes. You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“Mmhm. I gotta see her after the show.”

“We can try.”

“C’mon, Pete, did you _see_ her ass in those jeans?”

Pete had Patrick’s elbow jammed into his ribcage, and he choked out, “N-Nah, but hey, it doesn’t matter. She’s all you.”

Joe continued to congratulate himself and didn’t shut up until Diana ended her phone call and snapped her fingers at them. She gathered them in a semi-circle in the middle of the venue’s green room, tapping at the clipboard with him pen. Her expression contorted into one of annoyance when she noticed that Andy wasn’t present.

“He’s in the bathroom,” Patrick beat her to the punch. “His stomach’s acting up.”

“Is he going to be able to play tonight?” Diana’s deep frown creased her foundation into a map of rivers and valleys.

Pete tried to put in a vote of confidence, “He’s too dedicated to dip out of a show because of stomach ache. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“For our sake, I hope so.”

“We still have two-ish hours, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Diana said sharply, pinching her temples, “but we need to get each band through sound check and we’re supposed to be done at this point. Listen to me: This is only our fourth stop on the tour, we can’t be having issues like this. It’s too early and you boys are too unknown for this to be anywhere near acceptable.”

“Fuck it, I’ll go check on him,” Patrick volunteered. He hated the feeling of being scolded. He moved off of the doorframe where he had been resting and spun on his heel toward the bathroom. The footsteps of his tattered tennis shoes echoed on the lacquered wooden floors, and he soon disappeared around a corner. 

Diana thanked him and circled back to her clipboard. Several items were checked off while she mumbled to herself. A minute later, she walked away from the green room and made a beeline for the small staircase that led to the owner’s office.

“Wait, what’re we supposed to do?” Pete called after Diana, confused. “Do you want us to stay right here or..?”

“That would be helpful, yes,” Diana said dismissively. Her phone rang again and she answered it, consumed with whoever was on the other end.

Joe and Pete exchanged looks.

“So,” Pete spoke in a hurry, not wanting the circumstances to seem awkward, “I know you don’t want to stand around here waiting. How ‘bout we grab a drink at that convenience store down the street? The Circle K?”

Joe appeared skeptical, though he did take a step closer, “You buyin’? I’m trying to save money.”

“Yeah, I’ll buy.”

“Snacks, too?”

“Sure,” Pete relented, palming his wallet in his back pocket. He wasn’t trying to use junk food and soda to win Joe over like some weird stepdad that was being forced to bond with a kid that wasn’t his, no, that’s not what was happening. Rather, he was merely doing what Andy had told him to do. A one-on-one type of thing. “Let’s go, it’ll get dark soon.”

“Should we bring Patrick?” Joe asked. Certain that he was going to be made into the third wheel, he folded his arms and waited. 

Surprisingly, Pete shook his head, “It’s fine, he’s with Andy, anyway. I’ll grab him something while we’re there, though.”

He motioned to the same door they had come in from, and began to lead the way.

Joe followed and shivered as they stepped out into Cincinnati’s chilly evening air. Their sweatshirts were hardly keeping them warm. The sidewalk was wide enough for them to walk next to each other without disrupting the opposite flow of foot traffic. They easily fell into a synched rhythm and matched one another’s pace, and the communication between them was able to grow beyond small talk. They saw through their own shallowness and pushed past it. By the time they had almost reached the convenience store, they were verbally treading in the deep end. 

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to always chase girls if you’re interested in more than that,” Pete was lecturing, ensuring that he wasn’t too loud.

“Dude, stop. I’m highly aware of my options. I’m not gonna bother with guys because don’t want to deal with the crap that comes with it,” Joe insisted. Involuntarily, his eyes darted around them while they chatted, wary of potential homophobic assholes.

“Gimme a break,” Pete went on, “you know our scene is supportive. You’re scared, admit it.”

“No shit I’m scared! You try having Jewish parents and explaining what it means to be bisexual,” Joe exasperated, his frustration made visible by the neon lights of the Circle K in front of them.

“Hah! I’d rather explain myself to Jewish parents than a black mother.”

“Ugh..”

“Look, I know girls are fun and stuff, but their clingy as hell and can get pregnant. I don’t want you dropping out of the band because you have to go play daddy,” Pete told him. He pushed against the store’s front door and walked inside, the chime above them signaling the cashier.

Joe groaned, lost on what else he could say, “I shouldn’t have said anything to Patrick. He’s no good at keeping secrets.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Pete went to casually peruse the refrigerator goods to the right of the entrance, saying, “Patrick is great at keeping secrets. It’s your bad luck that he happens to tell all the secrets to guy he sleeps with.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Eh, we woulda figured you out eventually.”


	13. Chapter 13

Cincinnati hadn’t exactly heard of Fall Out Boy before, so it took a song or two to get them warmed up to their sound. They had more than their fair share of booing and beer cans hurled in their faces. By the end of their set, however, the crowd had divulged into a frenzy of waving hands and crushing bodies. They had been won over.

Or maybe they were just stoked to see the next band. 

“Before we play our last song and dip out of here,” Patrick purred into the microphone, “I’d like to thank you guys for coming out tonight. Give it up!”

The crowd cheered and inched closer. Due to the stage’s elevation, it was difficult to discern individual faces, and caused Joe to squint when trying to locate Amber among the sea of groupies. She was _his_ groupie. How insane was that? Her bouncy blonde hair under the harsh venue lights made her an easy target to spot (once they eventually hit her at the right angle), and he inwardly gushed at how she was somehow cuter than before. They caught each other’s gaze and exchanged grins.

Joe noticed her friends whisper and push around her, and he spun with his guitar held up high. His fingers shimmied across the fretboard while he cranked out a loud riff that threatened to overtake Patrick’s little speech. He jumped and slammed his feet down hard, causing Andy to shoot him a look of queasy amusement. 

“Let’s give it up for the bands I know you’re here to see.. Less Than Jake and Yellowcard!” Patrick encouraged, clapping above his head. He was met with an avalanche of roaring support, with a notably intense group of young ladies screaming the name of Yellowcard’s vocalist. Allowing a moment for everyone to collect themselves, he went on, “This is our last song, ‘Fever Pitch’. Enjoy it, fuckers!”

They exploded into the opening verse of ‘Fever Pitch’, their instruments surging with their unique, thunderous harmonies. The building’s low ceilings weren’t too helpful in the acoustics department, although what they lacked in an echo they made up for in volume. They pushed their already-exhausted bodies to the limit by adding exaggerated movements into every second of the song. Heads were banged and vocal chords were rubbed raw. Their efforts were worth the pain, and their finale was well-received. Attendees who hadn’t previously given a fuck about them were now chanting their name and calmmoring for more. It was precisely the sort of outcome they had been hoping for. 

With Pete was busy nipping at Patrick’s neck during the main chorus, Joe strutted toward the edge of the stage where Amber was. He waited until the focus shifted back to the lead guitar to grant him a break, then dropped to his knees to show off in the most up close and personal way he could manage. His shirt and jeans were grabbed by some random chicks that he couldn’t care less about, and he zeroed in on Amber, arching into the audience so that they were a mere foot apart. Quickly, he mouthed ‘Backstage’ to her several times and watched for her reaction to be sure she understood him.

Amber soon nodded, recognizing how serious Joe was and involuntarily exclaiming, “Oh my God! Okay, okay!”

Her infatuated expression was knocked into one of distress as the girl to her left collided their heads together. She had made an attempt to leap on stage, and, in her utter failure, had partially landed on Amber.

Irked by the other fan’s idiotic behavior, Joe stood and returned to his usual position on stage. Fever Pitch was coming to an end, anyway, and they would need to make a swift exit to maintain the integrity of their time slot. They had gone over by a couple of minutes, and they didn’t want to risk getting chewed out by the other bands or Diana. Luckily, that hadn’t happened on the tour. Yet.

Hardly giving the final notes a chance to ring out, Fall Out Boy scurried away from the spotlight and returned behind the curtains. They detangled themselves from their instruments and made room for the employees running around in preparation for the next band’s entrance. Without much time to breathe or object to how they were being directed, they were shoved into a corner and told to stay out of the way until everything was in place. They gawked as a stagehand unceremoniously ripped down their homemade band name banner. It was folded into a haphazard square of wrinkles, then kicked toward them.

“Gee, thanks,” Patrick said to the stagehand, his eyes bright with disgust. He reached for the banner with Pete helping him with the brunt of the weight. “Lemme know where tip jar is, why don’t ya? You guys are doing _great_.”

“Shove it, kid. We’re on a schedule,” the stagehand answered bitterly. He made a gesture for them to get lost. 

“So stupid.”

They shuffled to exit through the door that they knew would lead to the green room. Once inside, they were met with the members of Yellowcard sprawled along the couch and chairs, sipping on energy drinks. Short, stiff greetings were exchanged, followed by a mutual silence.

Andy turned to make a break for the bathroom, mumbling that he would be back later. He didn’t want to be around for this, anyway. Their tourmates hadn’t exactly been putting on the friendliest attitudes lately.

“Where’s he going?” Ryan, their lead singer, asked with a raised eyebrow. “Sick again?”

“Not really ‘again’.. He never got over it in the first place,” Pete reminded them. He heaved their banner onto an empty table.

“If you say so.”

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

Joe butt in, “Hey, gimme your bass, Pete. I’ll take it back to the van. Patrick, your guitar, too. I’ve got the keys, I can do it.”

“Oh, thanks, man,” Pete said. He was a bit stunned by Joe’s unusual willingness to help out, though he wasn’t about to complain. It was also a nice distraction from whatever bullshit Ryan was looking to pull. His bass and Patrick’s guitar were passed off to him, with the whole group marveling at his sturdy grip on all three instruments and rapid escape into the night.

“You’re the coolest, Joe!” Patrick called after him.

There was no response from beyond the green room. Even if Joe had heard them, he was overwhelmed by his excitement, speeding to the venue’s backdoor.

\---

With nowhere to sit, Pete and Patrick had chosen to camp on the floor, using one another for spinal support rather than pressing against the wall. Pete was messaging his sister to give her an update on how everything was going, with Patrick chugging a fresh water bottle from the green room’s refrigerator.

It was quiet. At least, it was quiet prior to Ryan’s outburst.

“Didn’t Diana tell you two to chill out onstage?” Ryan absentmindedly cracked his knuckles, glancing them over from his place on the couch. He shifted to the brink of his cushion, pushing, “Didn’t she?”

Not breaking eye contact with his phone’s screen, Pete answered, “Nope. She didn’t tell us anything. And, like, the fans come to these shows to see a very non-chill performance.”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then be a man and just tell us what you’re talking about. This isn’t fifth grade, stop beating around the bush,” Patrick bristled, highly-aware of what Ryan was getting at. He was certain that Pete knew where this was headed, and he wished he wouldn’t be so calm.

Ben, the lead guitarist, was eager to to stand by his bandmate for this harassment session, “Both of you are getting way too cozy on stage. No one wants to see you makin’ out up there.”

Having jumped into the fray, Ben had his chest out and squared his shoulders. His popped polo collar, sadly, didn’t do much for his menacing appearance.

“Yeah? No one wants to see it? I’m sure someone does,” Patrick said, failing to appear levelheaded. He angrily screwed his water bottle shut and dropped it beside him. “We don’t even make out, the hell are you talking about?”

“Maybe he wants to see that? You know what they say about projection,” Pete hummed thoughtfully. 

Together, they shared a laugh. When they finished, the entirety of Yellowcard was standing and scowling at them.

“All I’m saying is that it’s pretty damn annoying to be associated with a couple of faggots,” Ryan said. He folded his arms to the sound of his bandmates grunting in agreement.

“Sucks to suck,” Patrick growled. “And it doesn’t matter how you feel. People here are fine with it, and you’re under contract to finish the tour with us.”

“Jesus Christ you’re mouthy,” Ryan insulted with a flip of his long hair. He pointed at them like some wild spectacle at the zoo. “Control your bitch, Pete.”

“He’s not--” Pete had no idea why he bothered, since Patrick was upright and poised to fight in a heartbeat.

“Call me a bitch again! Do it, mothafucker!” Patrick’s fists were tight at his sides. He felt Pete’s hand on his arm and forced himself not to jerk away. He was unbelievably pissed off right now. There was no reason for this to be added to the pile of stress they had to deal with on tour. Mud was being thrown for the sole purpose of making a mess!

Why did these assholes have to be, well, _assholes_?

Ryan blew out a puff of air and avoided Patrick’s seething stare. He crammed his hands into his front pockets and was at a loss for a comeback.

“Tone down the gay shit. That’s all we’re saying,” Ben murmured. He nudged Ryan, “Come on, fuck ‘em, we don’t have to deal with ‘em for that long. Let’s go check our tuning, make sure they didn’t mess it up again.”

“Nah, we’re leaving first.” Pete steered Patrick to the door, which they were thankfully closer to. He turned his back to them - not without the last word, though, “If you guys ever want to look a little better onstage, hit me up. I’ve got plenty of eyeliner for each of your sorry faces.”

\---

“Grab the keys, they’re hanging off-- Yeah, the belt loop-- Awesome, you got it,” Joe had been instructing Amber as they hurried to the van parked at the side of the venue, hidden by a cluster of fir trees. “We’re almost there.”

“Okay. You sure you don’t want some help with those?” Amber fretted, motioning to the two guitars and bass Joe was holding. She was only a few steps behind him, the fall of her boots on concrete adding to the noise of the city.

“I don’t need help, I do this all the time. No big deal,” Joe affirmed.

“Heh, you’re so strong.”

“Not really. But thanks.”

They arrived at the van and Amber manually unlocked the two main back doors. Joe laid out the instruments on the floor and went to unload the corresponding cases from their racks above their spare amps and extension cords. Together, they packed everything away and replaced it in its proper position. The sleeping bag situation was adjusted to seem slightly more inviting and personal, with a few pillows fluffed and blankets folded. Ultimately, they had the van looking better than its original state. 

Locking themselves inside, they relaxed knowing that, in the unlikely event that they would be interrupted, they possessed the single set of keys. No one was getting in unless they wanted them to.

“Is it sexist to say that this place needed a woman’s touch?” Joe wondered aloud after kicking his shoes next to Amber’s. Delicately, he curled his grip around Amber’s hips, her small frame perched in his lap with legs on either side. “Sorry if it is.”

“No, no, I totally get it. Being on the road with a bunch of guys must be.. Interesting,” Amber said. She internally praised herself for maintaining a steady body and voice. This was the craziest, most thrilling concert she had ever been to. In fact, this was the craziest, most thrilling experience she had ever had with a boy. If this went well, this wouldn’t be the last chance she had to be intimate with Joe. Thank goodness she had joined her friends to chase these bands across the country. 

“They can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but hey, they’re my bandmates,” Joe said in a forced casual tone. He hunkered down further into the nest they had made out of his sleeping bag, bringing Amber with him. “Now, if I had to share a bathroom with those guys, I don’t think I’d make it. They’re pretty messy, hah.”

“How do you wash up, anyway? Not that, I, not that I mean anything by that,” Amber stumbled. Her face went flush with heat and she timidly bowed her head.

“It’s a coin toss between the other bands allowing us to use their hotel showers and buying an hour at the local YMCA’s. Mm, wait, I know we’re scheduled to stay at Patrick’s uncle’s house in New York, so, I guess we’ll be able to use his shower, too?” Joe realized how strange their tour arrangement seemed, and offered a smirk and a roll of his eyes. “There isn’t much we can do until we hit it big.”

“That makes sense. And since you started the band, you’re in charge of that stuff?”

“What d’you mean?”

“The decisions for the band,” Amber said naively, “what songs to play and how the album looks and all that. You make sure everything how you want it?”

Joe snickered, his ego shining through, “Yep. It’s my band, I make most of the decisions. ‘Sides, I know what people like.”

“Wow, Joe, you don’t get enough credit.”

“Tell me about it. No worries, it’s not a huge deal. I’m hardworking and can handle it.”

Amber rested her forehead on Joe’s, giggling, “You’ll definitely make it big. You’re so talented.. Your performance tonight was amazing.”

“I was decent, nothing special. But I was playing up there for you, I wanted to make you feel good.”

“You did. I guess it’s time for me to return the favor..”

Joe eagerly took her into his arms and returned the kiss she had initiated. He was entranced by how soft her skin was against his own, how sugary she tasted on his black coffee-soaked tongue. He dodged the desire to whimper and instead let out a low, scratchy groan. From Amber, there was an indulgent sigh and knew that he was in the clear to keep going. Carefully, he snuck his fingers under her sweater and drifted them over the clasp of her bra. She pressed further into his arms, and made no moves signaling him to stop.

He had been craving this. Badly. He hadn’t been with a girl since Jesse’s party, and he swore that he deserved to get his own slice of the action. 

Undoing the clasp and cupping her breasts, Joe reclined onto the floor with Amber on top of him. Her beauty spilled out of his greedy palms, which prompted him to change his hold to something more subtle. He prickled in anticipation as she toyed with the hem of his pants, and, before he could even wish for it, the tip of his zipper. She pulled the zipper down and popped open the accompanying button, the lack of a belt making her work much easier. She broke from their kiss when her sweater was riding up past her navel.

“Wait, lemme get this for you,” Amber said, hauling her bra and sweater above her head. She tossed them, hesitated, and then decided to free her hair from its loose bun.

“You,” Joe floundered for a smooth line, and instead went with, “you’re pretty. Can’t believe how lucky I am.”

“You’re too much,” Amber said modestly, looking away for a moment. She tugged at Joe’s briefs, his now-aching erection released. Her fingers held him by the base and gave the lightest squeeze. “I don’t know if you were expecting a blowjob--”

“No, I’m not expecting--”

“ ‘Cause I kinda just want you to fuck me.”

“Y-Yes, oh God, I would love to fuck you.”

Amber gave another, harder squeeze and stroked the length of his cock, asking, “Do you have condoms?”

“Yeah, uhm,” Joe’s mind scrambled to recall where he had left his wallet, and cringed when, after checking his back pocket, he knew it was in the venue’s green room, “I do have some. But they’re, shit, they’re not in here.”

“Well, we’d be doubling up, anyway. I’m on birth control, so..” Amber continued to play with him, arousing him further with each touch. 

Straining to not think with his dick, Joe wiped his brow and gulped, “Hang on. I’ll find some.”

He sat up and surveyed the scene. Pete’s hideous Abercrombie duffle bag caught his interest and he went for every single zipper on the damn thing, digging for what he desperately needed. It was in here, it had to be. The worst part was that pawing through Pete’s business put Pete in his head and he absolutely did not want that. He heard that brash, ‘I’m-so-funny-but-not-actually’ voice of Pete in his subconscious, telling him off for being a thieving douchebag. It was irritating as hell and he wondered how many more thoughts of his least favorite bandmate his poor cock could take. 

In spite of all the nonsense that Pete spews, there was one chunk of advice that shook him with deafening importance: 

_Look, I know girls are fun and stuff, but their clingy as hell and can get pregnant._

“Gotcha!” Joe’s fingertips had grazed the familiar condom wrapper. He yanked them out of the inner pouch where they had been hiding, and triumphantly showed them to Amber. “We’re set.”

Pete probably wouldn’t mind, would he? No way, Joe was being safe, and condoms were perfectly replaceable. The circumstances were reasonable. 

Plus, this was his band. He shouldn’t have to ask or apologize in the slightest.


	14. Chapter 14

“So what the fuck do you want me to do about it, Pete?”

“I don’t know, I just want to understand what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on! I didn’t do anything!”

“Patrick, shhh..”

Fuming, Patrick held his tongue for the sake of not waking up their bandmates. Though he and Pete were standing outside of the van, they were certain that their voices could carry and cause a disturbance. They had already received a few odd looks from the occasional passersby. Unfortunately for them, a trucker stop a hundred miles outside of Pittsburg wasn’t the best place to lay out their relationship issues. 

Pete stepped closer, his distress vivid under the streetlamps, “I told you, I talked to Joe, and I talked to Andy, too. Neither of them messed with my bag, they both swore up and down.”

“Hah! What, you’re gonna believe everything Joe says now?” Patrick edged away, using the side of the van for support. He hated how Pete was trying to loom over him.

“No, I don’t believe everything Joe says. But I believe him about this.”

“Why? He’s not your friend,” Patrick hissed. “He’s probably lying. I wouldn’t be surprised if he snuck in a girl to bang. Props to him for safe sex practices, because I can garuntee you he stole your condoms.”

“Why’re you saying he’s not my friend? He’s been pretty chill with me lately,” Pete said, a bubble of insecurity rising in his stomach. 

Patrick kicked at the asphalt, “He hasn’t really liked you since he first met you. He thinks you steal his limelight and stuff.”

“Okay..? Has he explicitly said this?”

“No! I just get that feeling from him.”

“Great reason,” Pete muttered, knowing that he was adding fuel to the fire. He tugged at the zipper of his jacket with one hand, the other moving to push black streaks of hair away from his line of vision.

Patrick didn’t respond. Instead, he took out his phone to check the time. Fuck, it was one in the morning. He was losing sleep over a petty crime that Joe didn’t want to confess to. 

“If you say that you think he’s lying, then, I, I’m on your side. Maybe he did go through my bag,” Pete said gently. 

“Of course you should be on my side! I’m your--” Patrick stopped himself. He may be riled up, but he wasn’t about to put labels on them. He wasn’t in the right headspace for that. Especially not when Pete was getting on his last nerve. His throat was cleared, and he reiterated, “I’m yours. And you’re mine. That’s how it’s been since we got together, and that means you have to believe what I’m telling you right now.”

Pete frowned, “I know, I’m sorry. I don’t want to accuse you of anything. I want to understand what’s going on, that’s all.”

“Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me. If it did, I wouldn’t hide it from you.”

Patrick was sick of this. He was tired beyond his wildest dreams, and the last thing he needed to be doing was working his vocal cords into overtime when they should be resting. Hoping to end this confrontation, he walked to the back of the van.

“Wait,” Pete said, realizing that Patrick was making his escape, “please wait. C’mere, don’t end the conversation this way. Let’s hash it out, please?”

“Nah, I’m good. We’re done talking, and I’m freezing,” Patrick told him callously. He continued on his path toward the van, reaching for the backdoors.

Pete caught up to him, snatching him by the wrist. His action was rough, so much so that his arm shook with the impact.

“Hey!” 

“Patrick, don’t be like this,” Pete said, his inflection tinged with sorrow, “I need you. Let me hold you for a sec.”

“Stop--!”

Pete continued to clamp onto Patrick’s wrist, his opposite hand snaking around his waist to hold him close. The unintended aggression of his movements caused Patrick to struggle in response, and he was ultimately propelled into the side of the van. His spine struck the frigid metal and his knees knocked together, causing their height difference to increase. Pete uttered a ‘Sorry’ while refusing to let go. The squirming didn’t fully phase him, his mind set on making this right. They locked eyes, Patrick’s blue greens flickering with rage.

Gingerly lowering his head, Pete went in for a kiss.

“You,” Patrick snarled, yanking an arm loose and raising it skyward, “you fuckin’ bastard! GET OFF!”

He brought his hand down hard. His open palm connected with Pete’s left cheek and most of his nose with a resounding _smack_.

Stumbling backward, Pete released him and dangerously wobbled on his heels. When he was certain that he wasn’t going to fall over, the shock of the slap overtook him. It burned badly enough that he could have sworn he was bleeding. He put his own hand to his face. The sting radiated across his skin and would presumably leave a mark for the next few hours. He dropped his hand away from the wound and gripped the front of his jacket, twisting the material.

“Take a hint! Christ, don’t box me in like that,” Patrick snapped, standing tall. “I don’t wanna be touched, fuck!”

Pete apologized with a hiccup, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve done that. I just miss, I miss being able to be with you.”

“What? Being packed into this fucking van together doesn’t do it for you?”

“No.. I want to lie in bed with you and hold you a-and feel everything about you.”

“Hmph.”

A sudden breeze rolled over them. Its icy tendrils caused Pete to flinch and step closer without thinking. Patrick didn’t react, and chose to impatiently tap his foot. The rubber sole of his shoe hitting the ground was the only thing to be heard aside from symphony of the highway behind them. Again, their eyes met.

Patrick exhaled, “Look. I know you wanna put labels on us. And I know you want me to say shit like ‘I love you’. That’s fine, you’re allowed to want all that. But the worst way to make that happen is by not believing me when I tell you that I _didn’t_ take the condoms out of your bag to do who knows what. The other worst way is by holding me down like you did. Don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Okay,” Pete said meekly. “I didn’t mean to take it that far. You, I deserved the slap. I deserved it, one hundred percent.”

“I hit you, I didn’t slap you.”

“Okay,” Pete repeated, knowing this wasn’t the time to pick at semantics. The breeze blew by once more, this time carrying dust along with the dropping temperature. He hunched in Patrick’s direction, wordlessly asking for permission to approach him. 

Patrick wavered until he noticed Pete’s trembling lower lip. It was pathetic, though endearing to the point that he gave in and opened his arms. He was met with a tackle-like hug and nose buried into the crock of his neck. He returned the affection by running his fingers through Pete’s hair and pressing their fronts together. 

“Sorry,” Pete said for what had to be the third time. He tightened their embrace.

“You’re fine,” Patrick replied. He grabbed Pete by a fistful of hair on the back of his head and tilted him up. “Don’t cry, please, I can’t deal with that tonight.”

“Not crying.” Pete showed his face, which was free from any tears. He was normal aside from the hand-shaped red blotchiness that had claimed his left cheek and nose. His next question was carefully presented, “Can I kiss you?”

“.. Yeah.”

They created a bridge of warmth between them, their mouths fixed into a snug seal. Patrick’s grip migrated to Pete’s backside and nudged him against his chest. Instantly, Pete moved in. They parted their lips for one another and were a mess of moans in a matter of seconds. Whenever they broke apart for air, their breath could be seen in little clouds, the night growing colder as it wore on.

With their negative emotions fading, they indulged in this rare, rich time to themselves. They hadn’t been able to have even an ounce of authentic physical passion in at least three weeks, unless one counted their stage antics. They equally ached for the chance to go on a regular date with regular sex. Their pent-up lust and frustration had undeniably contributed to the miscommunications and allegations of this dispute about Pete’s bag. It was absurd and shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

“Mm, how’s your cheek?” Patrick asked, pulling away to lick his lips.

“It hurts. Although, I think I’ll survive,” Pete chuckled. He peppered small pecks across Patrick’s jawline, hands finding his waist. 

“I’m glad it hurts. Don’t ever push me into a corner like that again. Not unless I want it.”

“Gotcha.”

\---

With Joe at the wheel, Patrick in the passenger seat, Pete asleep, and Andy propped up with a _Rolling Stone_ magazine, the van had a comforting lull about it. With their Pittsburg show behind them, they were headed to Boston for their second-to-last show in the States. After that, they would be off to New York and Canada to complete the tour. Without being willing to admit it, they were all thrilled to be home soon.

“What’s in Boston, anyway?” Patrick wondered aloud. He followed this with a yawn, kicking his socked feet on the dashboard. “Buncha college kids? The Red Sox?”

“I think so. And get your feet away from me!” Joe fussed. 

“Lame. College blows, and so do the Sox.”

“Eh, it depends on what you want to do. College is worth it if you choose a useful major.”

Andy chimed in, “That’s the right attitude to have, Joe. School’s important.”

“If that’s the case, then why didn’t you go to school?” Patrick turned to sneer at Andy, his features incredulous. 

“Because I thought I’d be a cool guy and join some bands. Specifically, bands with bratty high school kids.”

“Uh, I’m not a high school kid.”

“Never said you were,” Andy said nonchalantly. He flipped the page in his magazine, not bothering to spare him a glance.

Patrick grumbled something inaudible and returned to his forward-facing position. From the cup holder, he took his stale coffee and sipped for a good minute. He then toyed with the hem of his sweater, ears twitching when Joe spoke. 

“Man, that reminds me, I have to catch up on everything and get ready for finals when we get back. That’s gonna be annoying,” Joe said, his unhappiness obvious. 

“You’ll live,” Patrick shrugged, replacing his coffee in the cup holder. “Besides, don’t you just want to graduate? You don’t need to get straight A’s.”

“Straight A’s would be nice.”

“Why?”

Joe dug his fingernails into the steering wheel’s leather, saying, “Good grades are important if you want to go to college.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to do that.” Patrick was a bit surprised, and didn't want to show it - partly because he couldn't picture himself in higher education. He had no idea that Joe was being serious earlier. “What do you want to study?”

“Maybe.. Something with engineering? I’ve always been solid with math and numbers.”

“That’s cool.”

“Yeah.”

“Engineering is a smart choice,” Andy noted. He turned another page in his magazine.

The van’s lull returned, however, it had been stripped of its comfort. They drove on, passing daily commuters and families on their way to visit relatives for Thanksgiving. Cars flanked them on either side, with semi-trucks sprinkled throughout the lanes. Traffic wasn’t terrible, it was manageable. They would remain on time for their next stop unless they ran into an unexpected issue. 

Patrick couldn’t resist, “Joe, you wouldn’t actually go to college, right? What about the band?”

“It’s a backup plan of mine,” Joe said, keeping the situation light, “and not a backup plan I hope to use. I know we’re gonna make it big and I won’t ever have to go to school again.”

“That’s the spirit!” Patrick beamed. 

“Way to encourage the pursuit of knowledge,” Andy said tartly. He had finished with his magazine and was now simply watching them, a closed fist under his chin. 

“Gimme a break,” Patrick scoffed at Andy, “Joe’s making his own decisions. He knows that our music is unstoppable. We’re shooting straight for the top!”

For emphasis, Patrick lifted his feet and pointed his toes high. He plopped them back onto the dashboard with a heavy landing.

Joe couldn’t think of anything nice to say, so, in remembering the wisdom of his mother, he decided to keep quiet. His lip piercing, recently switched from a ring to a stud, was nibbled on in an effort to distract himself. The metallic tang hardly transcended the bickering that had begun with Patrick and Andy. Still, it dulled them to an extent. He blinked once, twice, and on the third time he held his eyelids shut for longer than usual to ease the dryness that came with staring at the road for hours.

Upon reopening them, he realized that he was skating over the yellow lines.

“Damnit,” Joe said through gritted teeth, pulling the van back to where it should be. They swerved, and narrowly avoided both a honking sedan and a patch of black ice.

“Whoa!” Patrick yelped.

“Careful!” Andy warned. 

Pete awoke with a lurch, “Huh!?”

With a hasty apology, Joe regained control and continued to drive. Ahead of them, he saw a sign for a rest stop within the next five miles. Now was probably as good a time as any to call for a switch.

\---

“You’re awfully giddy,” Pete said, searching Joe’s perky appearance for an answer. “Don’t tell me it’s that same girl. What was her name? Annie?”

“It’s Amber,” Joe corrected. He maintained his pace, led by Diana among the heart of downtown Boston. They were being treated to a late night meal after their sold out show. Apparently, the diner they were stopping off at had some of the best clam chowder and lobster rolls in the city. It was exactly what they needed after a particularly lengthy show.

“Ooh, my bad, I can’t keep track of all your fangirls.”

“Nice one. Very funny.”

“What’re you guys talking about?” Patrick peered over Pete’s shoulder.

Pete curbed the urge to be sarcastic, “Nothing much, only Joe’s biggest fan. She and her friends have been following us since Cincinnati. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Riiight,” Patrick said, the diner’s bell ringing above them upon entering. Andy was bringing up the rear, less interested in the babblings of his bandmates and more interested in the promised food.

“Tch,” Joe was irritated with their lack of sensitivity, “if she lived in Chicago, we would date for sure. Like, I’d make her my girlfriend in a heartbeat.”

Pete caught a glimpse of Patrick’s smirk and mirrored it. 

“How do you know you guys would be compatible? Been on a date yet? Felt her up?” Patrick teased. He came to a halt, Diana chatting with a hostess about available seating.

Joe faced him, “We’re a match, trust me. And, dude, I’ve done way more than felt her up.”

“Don’t tell me that crap happened in our van. We don’t need your bare ass making prints all over our sleeping bags,” Pete said, genuinely worried.

“It didn’t, you perv.”

“Then where?”

“None of your business,” Joe informed them. He followed Diana and the hostess to a table at the center of the diner.

Pete and Patrick traded doubtful expressions. Where the hell else could Joe have gotten a scrap of privacy? It seemed that the condom thief had outed himself. 

Diana took a seat, gesturing for them to do the same, “While I’d love to hear more about your frivolous escapades, I’d prefer if we sit down and have dinner.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” Andy said, being the first to join her.

With everyone soon perusing their menus and sipping on ice water, they settled into a more casual conversation. They eventually placed their orders and began to eagerly await their food’s arrival. Their waitress promised that it would be no more than twenty minutes, and she cheerily pranced away.

“Let’s talk business for a minute,” Diana said, her acrylics intuitively grazing the table’s surface. “We need to discuss a few items.”

Everyone agreed, and made an effort to not act nervous or tense. At this point, they understood how extreme their manager could be about the tiniest aspects of their music and performance. 

“I have good news and bad news,” Diana started, taking the time to make eye contact with each of them. “Which would you rather hear first?”

“Good,” Patrick and Joe said.

“Bad,” Pete and Andy said.

Amused by their varying preferences, the group had a quick laugh. After recomposing themselves, they leaned in for the discussion.

“Let’s go with the good news first. Despite having three shows left, we are officially sold out of t-shirts and CD’s,” Diana said proudly. She allowed them a moment to cheer and high five, ignoring the raised eyebrows from their fellow customers. An older woman out to eat with four young men after midnight was definitely a strange sight. “Plus, I’m working on putting merchandise available for purchase on our website. We’ll be one of the few small bands doing online sales.”

“Yes! This is so fuckin’ cool,” Patrick said with Pete clasping their hands together in excitement. 

“I knew we could do it, wow,” Andy smiled.

“Ahaha, that’s amazing! I told you guys my shirt designs were rad as hell,” Joe chriped. 

Diana’s calm demeanor returned them to reality, “You all have done a wonderful job. We’ve earned this success, truly, we have.” 

“Yup!” Patrick was ecstatic, almost knocking over his water glass. “What could possibly be the bad news here!?”

They shifted in their seats, anxious to hear what the downside was.

“I’ll be blunt: Your return show in Chicago has been cancelled by the venue’s owner. Before you ask, no, I don’t know why,” Diana said. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”


	15. Chapter 15

Andy fiddled with the crinkled twenty dollar bills in his hands. They felt unfamiliar. Despite being the same green color as American money, the Canadian notes were alien against his fingertips. He held them up and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Pete.

“Just keep it. Take Joe out, let him drink or whatever,” Pete told him. “I need the van for a couple hours. I haven’t been alone with Patrick in forever and it’s killing me.”

“Can’t you use this money to get a hotel room or something instead? Don’t fuck in the van, we already had a conversation about this,” Andy stressed, continuing to hold up the money. He didn’t want to do this. 

“Please, Andy?”

“Why?”

Scowling, Pete kept his temper in check, “Because, I don’t have enough for a hotel. Not a nice one, anyway. The van will feel more spontaneous and romantic.”

“Eugh..” Andy’s nose wrinkled with distaste. 

“This one time, that’s all I’m asking for. We’ll even stay up in the front seats, I swear.”

“I’m not sure, Pete.”

“I’m literally _begging_ you.”

Andy looked him over once. Twice. Finally, he folded the money and pushed it into his own back pocket. He then reached forward and clasped his hand on Pete’s nearest shoulder. His shook his head, saying, “You know I don’t do alcohol, right? That means you want me to hang around Joe while he drinks himself silly. ”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Pete said, completely apologetic. 

“It’s fine. I’ll do it.”

“Really!?”

With fantastic timing, Joe burst through the gas station’s double doors. He strode over to where they stood near the ICEE machine, joining them without noticing the tension.

“Hey Joe,” Andy said. “Something wrong?”

“Me and Patrick were wondering what was taking you guys so long,” Joe answered. The fresh snow he had tracked in didn’t faze him, nor did the angry stare of the clerk.

“We were actually talking about you,” Andy admitted. Beneath the ceiling’s fluorescent bulbs, his glasses caught the light when he tilted his chin with sincerity.

“What about me?” Joe instantly turned to Pete, assuming that the older boy had been talking trash about him. He asked a second time, “What about me?”

“Nothing bad, we were talking about what we wanted to do tonight,” Pete defended himself. He offered a half-smile and put his hands up to show he meant no harm.

“That so?”

“Yep.”

Andy agreed, “We were figuring out the details for tonight. I was thinking of taking you to some bars, since the drinking age is 21 here.”

“Awesome! I’m down,” Joe said, his mood switching. 

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, though. I’m not going to let you get crazy.”

“Okay, okay. And what about you and Patrick?” Joe’s suspicion was piqued, though he managed not to attack Pete with any accusations. 

“We were,” Pete tried to think of something on the spot, “going to find a nice place for dinner. We were going to hang out and eat, and we could pick you up when you’re ready. It was going to be like a quick date, and Montreal is perfect since it’s so beautiful.”

“So you’ll have the van?”

“For a couple of hours, yeah.”

“All right then.”

“We’ll pick you up whenever you’re ready to head back,” Pete affirmed, surprised by the lack of retaliation. “Text us or give us a call. You have international service, right?

“Mmhm,” Joe said, seeming to have moved on. He approached the ICEE machine, browsing the flavors. “I’ll try not to get too hammered.”

\---

Cell phone pressed tightly to her ear, Diana was on hold with the owner and manager of the Lincoln Hall venue. Originally, Lincoln Hall had been their last stop on the tour, providing them with the opportunity to show the fans in Chicago how important they were. She had been waiting to speak with him for the past half hour. Her disappointment for the length of a call that had yet to start was growing with each passing minute. 

On the other end of the phone, a man picked up and asked with whom he was speaking.

Relieved, Diana jumped into the issue, “Yes, this is the manager for Fall Out Boy, Diana-- Right, I see.. Yes.. Did they? Well, I wasn’t-- No, I hadn’t been told this..”

She was silent, listening to the man hazily explain why the show had been cancelled. The details were vague to the point that she had to cautiously frame her questions. She had been in this business long enough to know that certain items weren’t adding up, and that someone was at fault here. This man wasn’t going to volunteer to air out the dirty laundry, he was merely going to skirt around the big picture until this phone call was over.

“I understand.. We’ll have a conversation with them.. Yes.. That’s fine, I’ll be in touch, yes.. Take care, goodbye,” she said, hanging up. She set her phone on the bar, its bulky casing tapping her wine glass. 

She knew what needed to be fixed. They could get this Chicago show back on track if the boys were willing to cooperate. 

\---

“So, a date?” Patrick was snuggled up beside Pete, their sleeping bags arranged protectively around them in a semi-circle. He ventured, “And no one’s gonna bother us?”

“That’s the plan,” Pete said, his hands resting on Patrick’s shoulders. 

“Wow, all my dreams are coming true.”

Mixing guilt and arrogance, Pete said, “You’re welcome. Erm, I had promised Andy that we wouldn’t mess around in the back, and, damn, here we are exactly where I said we wouldn’t be. Let’s keep it a secret.”

Patrick was happy to oblige. He put a finger up to make a ‘shhh’ signal.

They went in for a kiss, their noses briefly bumping before their lips met. Being alone in the van, it was more peaceful than they could have ever imagined. Such a simple circumstance now carried a beautiful connotation. After weeks of squabbling over what music to play, where to stop for food, who had to drive on which nights, and everything in between - it was nice to have the place to themselves. 

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” Pete admitted among their smooches. “Being up on stage with you is brutal. You look so good and I can only do so much.”

“Groping me on stage isn’t enough?” Patrick snickered. He brushed a hand over the front of Pete’s pants, his movements slow and deliberate. 

Pete kissed along Patrick’s neck, drifting to his chest, “No way. I need you all to myself, without hundreds of people in the room.”

“I thought you liked people watching?”

“I prefer smaller crowds, and I prefer when they don’t know they’re being included.”

Patrick blushed. He allowed Pete to push him onto the floor, the wheels creaking somewhere beneath them. As his hoodie and undershirt were pushed aside, he murmured, “Guess you’ll have to settle for a private performance.”

“Guess I will,” Pete replied boldly. 

Patrick’s belt was unbuckled and his pants were undone, his underwear slid down to his mid-thigh area. Neither of them had any desire to be fully stripped, since the van had almost no insolation and the temperature outside was at least forty degrees fahrenheit. The cold was affecting his cock, too, with less blood rushing than usual. He whispered an apology and held onto a nearby pillow.

“Don’t worry,” Pete reassured him, bending to rub Patrick’s semi-hard on with his cheek. Thick curls of dark blonde hair caressed his face and brought on a set of shivers. Flexing his upper body muscles, he said, “I’ll get you going no problem.. You want me to suck you off, right?”

Patrick nodded, “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Pete had Patrick’s cock in his mouth in record time, taking him in all at once rather than going at a measured pace. It wasn’t too difficult considering Patrick wasn’t completely erect, and considering how thirsty he was for some real action. His lips made a seal around the base, his throat tickled by the tip. Above him, he heard a loud gasp. It was the only incentive he needed to do what Patrick wanted.

They both froze for a moment when they heard a group talking outside. The van’s poorly-tinted windows let them see the vague shapes of whoever it was, and they pressed low to the surface. Soon, the group passed by and none of the voices were deemed as recognizable, helping to calm their fears. Being stuck in a functioning parking garage was terrible for their romance, but it was better than nothing.

Pete popped his mouth off for split-second, asking, “Someone got hard in a hurry. Tell me, _who _likes being watched?”__

__“Shut up,” Patrick hissed, perfectly aware of how his cock was pointing straight up, “that’s just from the adrenaline. Not my fault.”_ _

__“Suuure.”_ _

__Returning to their intimacy, Pete recreated his previous hold on Patrick. Although this time, he cupped him by the waist for extra security and composure. His tongue slithered across the tender skin of Patrick’s cock, licking and sucking and damn near drooling a puddle of saliva onto the sleeping bag. It was messy and Pete didn’t want to be, especially due to their limited resources for cleaning themselves. He summoned as much restraint as he could manage, and focused on pleasuring Patrick without slobbering everywhere._ _

__“Mm, oh, Pete, you,” Patrick fumbled with his words, his blush more prominent than before, “you bad boy.”_ _

__Startled and with a mouthful of cock, Pete needed a few seconds before he could respond, “Yeah? I’m your bad boy?”_ _

__“Mm.. hm..”_ _

__“Tell me how much you want it, baby.”_ _

Patrick inhaled sharply, “ _So much_.”

__Pete’s hold on Patrick’s waist tightened, and he returned his mouth to where it belonged. He began a rhythmic swallowing motion that put pressure on his throat. Consequently, he had to redirect his breathing through his nose to avoid choking. Patrick definitely had some girth that had to be carefully dealt with. His nostrils flared with effort, the chilly air seeming to slice at his insides. Bad boy or not, he could handle the discomfort of trying to get things going in their poor man’s tourbus._ _

__An idea formed at the back of Pete’s mind._ _

__“Hey,” Pete called softly, “remember when you slapped me the other day?”_ _

__“Buh? Wha--?” Patrick was dazed, sitting up by an inch or so to get a better view of Pete._ _

__“What’re you talkin’ about?”_ _

__“You know, when you did this.”_ _

Double checking that Patrick was paying attention, Pete held him by the base of his cock. He also readjusted his own head to be at a more angled position. He then drew Patrick’s cock backward, its engorged pink flesh glistening in the dull light, and let it go. As a result, he was struck in the center of his face with the full length. There was a resounding _slap_ that accompanied the hit, its wet echo consuming the van for a moment. The hit stung a bit, but the pain paled in comparison to Patrick’s reaction. 

__“.. Am I supposed to like that? Because,” Patrick looked Pete up and down, his eyes lingering on that talented mouth, “because I do.”_ _

__“Good,” Pete said, fighting his shakiness and the increasing tension in his briefs._ _

__“Do it again. Do it harder.”_ _

__“Whatever you say.”_ _

__Pete held Patrick by the base of his cock a second time, and gave himself another firm slap across the face, this time deciding not to let go. It was easier to control that way. He figured it would cause less irritation for Patrick, too. This was new for them and he wanted to do it right. His hold was firm, and he repeated the slaps several more times until they were both winded and precum was trickling from Patrick’s pulsing tip._ _

__Pulling Pete’s hair, Patrick encouraged Pete to finish him off in their usual style. Pete gave a grunt of understanding and bobbed his head downward. The heat that quickly surrounded him was overwhelming, and Patrick clenched his body as the threat of his orgasm loomed within the next minute or so. He panted lightly, his lungs wanting to involuntarily hold everything in. His free hand went to grab the pillow from earlier with his fingernails scratching urgently at the threadbare fabric._ _

__Pete took up Patrick in his hand again and swiped his tongue along the length. A few strokes were offered to continue the stimulation while he rearranged himself in a new position. Eventually, he slapped Patrick’s cock against waiting tongue. He accompanied each slap with a sensuous lick. It was quite a bit of work to maintain his pace, but Patrick’s stunned, aroused expression was worth it._ _

__“Fuck, you’re good. I’m g-gonna cum any second,” Patrick warned with his legs trembling._ _

__“Tell me when,” Pete demanded, his tone like honey. He suckled the head of Patrick’s cock, his lips shiny with saliva and his gaze fixated on the young man in front of him. “I’ve got you.”  
Patrick spoke through grit teeth, “I’m gonna cum.. Like, right now..!”_ _

__With this being Patrick’s first climax with Pete since they had been on tour, it rocked him to his very core. He had missed having a partner dearly. To be able to cum in Pete’s warm, eager mouth was infinitely better than cumming in his hand while alone in some hotel shower. His cock felt heavy, and he loved the relief that went with it being drained of every last drop. He arched his back and reached up to cover his mouth, an embarrassing mewl escaping him. He thrust several more times, riding the final waves of satisfaction, and relaxed onto the sleeping bag beneath him._ _

__“Ah, f-fuck, Pete,” Patrick huffed, his hands scrambling to hold onto the taller boy, “holy shit, I can’t feel my legs. You’re..”_ _

__“The best?” Pete suggested. He was beaming and sitting back on his haunches._ _

__Patrick playfully kicked at Pete, causing his own underwear and pants to drop further downward. Absently scratching at the side of his nose, he sniffled and furrowed his brow at how they had managed to uniquely perfume the fan. Whoops, no one was going to appreciate that. He sighed._ _

__Having wiped his chin clean from the aftermath, Pete was already up and sifting through his nearby bag. He heard Patrick’s sigh and caught a glimpse of him pouting, “You okay? I thought we could go for round two.”_ _

__“I’m okay,” Patrick assured. “Normally, I’d.. feel sorta weird about fucking in the van, but after Joe had the nerve to do it first-- Yeah, I don’t really care.”_ _

__“I feel the same,” Pete said, the open pack of condoms twirled between his index finger and thumb._ _

__“We doin’ this, then?”_ _

__“Yep. Flip your sweet ass over.”_ _


	16. Chapter 16

Arguably the worst part of their shows was the very last song. Not the last song of their own set, but rather the end of Yellowcard’s set, which signaled that the gig had ended. The members of Yellowcard, particularly Ryan, the lead singer, had this strange fixation on demanding that the supporting bands joined him onstage again for a final bow. It was usually received well, with a few instances of bottle-throwing and heckling mixed in along a couple of the tour stops.

Personally, Patrick thought it was out of place at a punk show. His mouth was kept shut due to both previous threats from Ryan and his own tendencies for ‘out of place’ behavior like swapping spit with Pete during their performance. So he chose to grin and bear it.

“Thank you! Toronto, thank you!” Ryan sang into the microphone. He had Ben, the lead guitarist in a playful psuedo-headlock, and was using his free hand to do a peace sign at the clamoring crowd. “Let’s give a big round of applause for our supporting acts, Less Than Jake and Fall Out Boy!”

With the aforementioned bands flanking Ryan and the rest of Yellowcard on either side, they took their moment in the spotlight to wave and pose for the screaming fangirls and a select few fanboys. Camera flashes went off in their faces, the gate at the edge of the stage creaking as it was weighed down by dozens of bodies. From the far left of the venue, a girl no older than fifteen screeched ‘I LOVE YOU, PETE’. Ultimately, Ryan asked the other bands to step back and he calmed the audience to a point where he wouldn’t have to shout into the microphone.

“We couldn’t pick a better city to end our tour in! Thank you again!” Ryan exclaimed, releasing Ben and clapping his hands. 

With something similar to a snarl, Patrick muttered, “Speak for yourself, dickhead.”

Pete stifled a chuckle at this. Andy had also heard him and smiled in response. Beside them, Joe asked what was so funny, and they all played a quick game of telephone to get him in the know. Together, they gave Ryan a side-eyed look and shuffled with impatience.

Ryan began to walk away from the center of the stage, shouting into the microphone, “We’ll be back soon! Goodnight!”

With Less Than Jake being the closest to the stairs that led away to the green room, they exited first. They were followed by Yellowcard, and finally Fall Out Boy. Patrick decided to linger and award the crowd a huge, exaggerated bow where he bent at the waist and took off his ball cap. He received quite the lively reaction. People cheered and screamed incoherent compliments, stray hands reaching toward him in hopes of catching a high five. When he stood from his bow, he blew a kiss and scampered to the exit as his name was cried out behind him.

When Patrick arrived at the green room, he was greeted by an odd sight waiting for him - Diana, Ryan, and Ryan’s manager, Mr. Monroe. The group shared an aura of unhappiness. Everyone else had disappeared to who knows where, and he immediately became defensive. 

“Where’s Pete?” Patrick glanced around, searching for any sign of him. “What’s going on?”

Diana stepped in, beckoning for Patrick to shut the door, “We wanted to have a chat with you. Alone.”

“The hell, am I being ambushed or what?”

“Patrick, please. It’s for you own good, and for your band’s own good.”

Diana took a seat at one of the couches, with Ryan and Mr. Monroe doing the same. On the table in front of them was a pitcher of ice water and several unused glasses. Diana took her time by filling each glass and passing them around, her actions painfully casual. The single remaining available seat was a cushioned chair opposite of the couch. It felt deliberately picked out and caused an overwhelming sense of reluctance.

By the time Patrick stiffly accepted the chair, he was bitter with distrust, “This isn’t my band. It’s everyone’s.”

“That’s rich! Gimme a break,” Ryan seethed, his sweat-soaked bangs sticking to the frame of his face. His knuckles went white with how agitated he was. “You’re such a--”

“Ryan, cut it out,” Mr. Monroe scolded him. He made sure that his client was prepared to bite his tongue before continuing, “We wanted to discuss the last show. The Chicago show.”

Patrick perked up. Still, he raised a skeptical eyebrow and reached for a glass of water, sipping slowly.

“I want to start by explaining why it was cancelled, and I also want to apologize to you,” Mr. Monroe stated. “Ryan here thought it would be a brilliant idea to call up the venue’s owner and try to convince him that Fall Out Boy should be kicked off the rooster for the performance.”

Patrick was gobsmacked, daggers shot in Ryan’s direction, “ _You what_ ?”

Ryan crossed his arms and turned his head. It wasn’t until his manager roughly nudged him that he grumbled a half-assed ‘Sorry’.

“Again, we apologize,” Mr. Monroe said, his hands clasped together sympathetically. “We’re currently working on sorting that out. Diana and I are, anyway.”

“Why would we be kicked from the rooster!?” Patrick demanded to know. “Why are you out to get us, you douchebag?”

“Language,” Diana said, her more relaxed demeanor suggesting that she had known about this for a significant amount of time. 

“Ryan, what the fuck?”

Diana rolled her eyes.

Refusing to be mature about the whole situation, Ryan stayed quiet. He appeared to be perfectly comfortable with having his manager speak for him.

Mr. Monroe was gentle with Patrick, “He wasn’t thinking, he thought that telling the venue owner about how you and Pete like to.. express yourselves onstage was a good enough reason to ban you from making an appearance.”

Exasperated, Patrick stood and slammed his water glass on the table, “Again with this homophobic bullshit!? Holy fuck, let it go! I swear to God, you’re lucky these two are here, otherwise I’d--!”

Diana gripped Patrick by his nearest forearm, reeling him back into a seated position. No way was she about to have this mediation session ruined by a tantrum. His immaturity was only going to make this more difficult, and they had no time to waste. She refused to let go of him until he was hushed and not poised to lunge across the table. She exhaled, “It was a mistake, and I understand that people often make mistakes when they’re new to the industry. We’re trying to move on from it.” 

“And so? The show was cancelled ‘cause this venue owner actually agreed with Ryan?” Patrick wondered, continuing to bristling with anger. 

Mr. Monroe shook his head, his bald scalp catching the light with his movements, “No, quite the opposite. He was upset about the attempted interference and decided he didn’t want to host groups that couldn’t get along.”

Patrick’s jaw went slack with horror, and he sputtered, “You, we, are you serious!? Ryan, you’re the fuckin’ worst!”

Ryan was too focused on the floor to say anything. 

“We’re doing everything we can to make amends,” Diana said, a sliver of confidence shining through. In her initial discussions with the venue owner and Mr. Monroe, the chances of them getting back on the docket for their original tour date were extremely hazy. “If we cooperate with one another, we can get this gig back on track.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure the power of friendship will save us,” Patrick retorted.

“It’s the best option we have.”

“What am I supposed to do about it? Why am I the only one here?”

Ryan growled a vague insult under his breath while Diana and Mr. Monroe caught each other in their peripherals. Yet no one said a word.

Patrick persisted, “What? What’s going on?”

“Nothing major,” Diana said, facing Patrick. “We simply need your input here. The plan is to wrangle the venue owner in for a conference call, and have you, me, Mr. Monroe, and Ryan stand in solidarity. We need to show him that we’ve moved on from these issues and would appreciate the return of our performance slot.”

“So he won’t take us back unless I’m in on this call?” Patrick asked, this new information not doing anything to console him.

“Exactly.”

“That’s fuckin’ stupid.”

Mr. Monroe was adamant, “I know it feels as if you’re responsible for Ryan’s actions, but, unfortunately, that’s partially what we’re dealing with here. We want you on this conference call so that we can demonstrate how we’ve put this incident behind us.”

“Sure, I’ve definitely put this behind me,” Patrick drawled sarcastically. He dug his shoulder blades further into the chair, the cheap fabric pinching around his torso.

“Please, Patrick. Be reasonable,” Diana said, in no mood to be begging a teenager for their participation. 

“Uhhh, okay, it doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Yeah.. But why just me? Is it ‘cause he picked a fight with me?” Patrick gestured vaguely at Ryan. He stuck his tongue out when they made eye contact.

“No, it’s because you’re the leader of your band, duh,” Ryan snapped at him. His attitude was mean and nonchalant, in a way that showed how much he believed Patrick was indeed the leader, even if he himself didn’t approve of it. “Or did you forget that you’re the lead singer?”

“Doesn’t make it _my_ band.”

“It does, idiot.”

“All right, settle down,” Mr. Monroe interjected. He paused to shoo away one of the stagehands, who had entered the green room to notify them that their merch tables were wrapping up, and hollered that they would need another fifteen minutes or so. “Patrick, we need you to recognize that your band can’t function without you. There’s no such thing as Fall Out Boy without you.”

“.. There’s no Fall Out Boy without Pete. Or Andy, or Joe. Hell, this band was Joe’s idea in the first place,” Patrick emphasized. A heavy, thorny sensation began to stir among his insides, pushing against his heart and causing it to thump nervously. 

Diana traced a single finger on the rim of her water glass, the condensation dripping with her next statement, “You know that’s not true, Patrick. Your voice is this band’s golden ticket.”

“.. But..”

“The success you’ve seen is mainly due to your singing talents. You’re irreplaceable and you hold more power than you realize.” 

In the back of his mind, Patrick remembered how callously he and Pete had spoken about cutting Joe as a lyricist and how their audience probably only cared for their relationship dynamic. It had been funny at the time, and now was absolutely shameful to reflect on. What the fuck. This isn’t what he ever dreamed of happening. He felt terrible and prayed that his emotions wouldn’t play out on his face.

“You helpin’ us or what?” Ryan asked, ignoring how Mr. Monroe glared at him. “You’re the last piece we need, Stump.”

“I mean, I,” Patrick struggled, suddenly aware of how he was being watched by everyone, “I guess I have to? Since we want this last show.”

Mr. Monroe hoped to entice Patrick further, adding, “Don’t worry, Ryan will be keeping his manners in check. I promise you won’t have any problems with him or anyone else regarding your sexuality.”

“Great. I’ll do it, fine. I’ll be on the call.”

“Thank you,” Diana said earnestly. She then reached over to shake Mr. Monroe’s hand and they patted their respective clients on the back. 

Not wanting to let the topic change too quickly, Patrick jumped in again, “Can I talk to the guys about this?”

“No, I’ll handle it. We need you to put all your energy into this final show, if we get it,” Diana advised. 

“Uhm, okay.”

Patrick sat there with no clue on how to proceed. He assumed he would be instructed on what he needed to do next, which would be followed by him not being able to talk this over with his bandmates. 

He hated it.

\---

Surrounded by grease-splattered walls and yellowed light bulbs, the members of Fall Out Boy sat inside a McDonald’s along the Canadian highway system. They were near the border, and would most likely be re-entering the States through New York. From this point on, their time trapped inside the van was limited. The end was in sight.

Their instruments and scraps of their merchandise, a boxful of stickers and patches, were stored away under the assumption that they weren’t going to be needing them for quite some time. It had been disheartening to accept that their Chicago show had been cancelled, but they knew there was nothing they could do about it. A cruel twist of fate had ruined their plans to finish strong. It couldn’t have been prevented nor could it be revived.

At least, that’s what they had been led to believe. Aside from Patrick.

“All I’m saying is we deserve an explanation,” Joe said, swallowing a bite of his McChicken. He wiped a smear of mayonnaise from his chin and went on, “Those fuckers don’t know what they’re missing!”

“Joe, there’s kids around,” Andy told him from across the table.

“What d’ya mean?”

Patrick piped up, “You kinda yelled the word ‘fuckers’ and he’s saying there’s little kids around who don’t need to hear that shit.”

“.. Exactly. Thanks.” Andy pressed the fingers of his right hand to his temple. When he lowered his hand, he pushed aside his empty French fry container. He brought his hands to his lap, asking, “Do you really think there’s no reason behind the cancellation? There has to be something that Diana isn’t telling us.”

“It’s probably industry drama or whatever,” Pete shrugged. Under the table, he bounced his leg while occasionally brushing his knee against Patrick’s beside him.

“But why wouldn’t she explain it to us? Maybe she screwed up and doesn’t want to look bad.”

“Could be. She’s usually so professional, though, I wonder what happened.”

Joe sneered, “She technically breached our contract by not booking us a second Chicago show. And it was Lincoln Hall that we were supposed to play! That place is legendary, way cooler than any other place we’ve played.”

“Ooh, that’s right. I forgot about that,” Pete said, snapping his fingers in realization. “Man, that’s where I first saw New Found Glory. I crowdsurfed and everything, haha! It’s such a cool venue.”

“I’ve been there, too,” Joe added, “the acoustics are awesome and their speakers don’t crackle every ten seconds. It’s also close to my house, which is nice.”

“Hey, you could’ve invited your parents.”

“Shut up.”

Andy leaned in slightly, almost as if he had a secret, “We could talk to the venue ourselves. We don’t necessarily need permission, especially since the tour is ‘over’.”

“Shit, why not?” Joe pumped his fist in the air for emphasis. “I’m down. I’d take an open mic night there, anything, as long as we had a slot to play. Our fans would be so happy, I know it.”

“They definitely don’t have open mic nights,” Pete smirked. “Either way, I wouldn’t be opposed to reaching out to them.”

“Okay, how could we do this?” Andy was excitedly on edge, his eyes darting between his bandmates.

Throughout this impromptu scheming session, Patrick hadn’t spoken. He didn’t trust himself to not reveal the information he had been entrusted with on behalf of Diana, Mr. Monroe, and Ryan. It was a bizarre, bulky burden that he had only been carrying for a day or two. To him, the idea of having to play dumb about what was going to happen to them was sickening. Yet what other choice did he have? None that were rational. It wasn’t even confirmed that they would be able to play the show. 

He was stuck. 

After agreeing to help out, Patrick had been included in the business call with Lincoln Hall’s owner. It had been an awkward, short exchange with way too many ‘Yes Sir’s’ thrown in. He had hardly given his consent for the show go on in addition to his forgiveness of Ryan’s blunder before he was forced to pass the phone back to Diana and Mr. Monroe. It had made him feel like a pawn in a stupid game of chess. Part of him almost wished that the gig would remain cancelled. That way he wouldn’t have to admit to being involved in ‘saving’ the final stop on their tour. He didn’t want to be any kind of hero or have any sort of extra influence over people he was close to.

“Patrick?”

With sharp gasp, Patrick flew out of his thoughts at the sound of Pete’s voice, “Sorry, what’d you say? I was spacing out.”

“Didn’t realize we were boring you,” Pete said jokingly with a wink. “You cool with helping us storm the castle? We can talk to these guys at Lincoln Hall the day we get back.”

“Well..”

“What’s wrong?”

Pete had noticed Patrick’s hesitation and was surprised by it. There was a upkick in anxiety and uncertainty on his partner’s face, and he had no clue where it was coming from. Had there been a misstep? Sure, going after a paid performance at the venue on their own was a bit of a frightening concept, although they had dealt with much worse. They could manage this; if they had everyone on board. Without a commitment from the entire band, particularly their lead singer, they wouldn’t have a shot at being taken seriously.

Patrick tried to swing them in a different direction, “I don’t wanna beg for our gig back. That’s pretty lame.”

“Then how are we supposed to fix this?” Andy questioned, his inflection unusually aggressive. “We’ve earned this, Patrick, we’ve done everything Diana has asked and now she’s not holding up her end of the deal. She won’t even tell us what the problem is.”

“I’ll be she has a good reason, it’s not like she’s always screwing things up,” Patrick replied. His head was tilted down, and he was fidgeting with the wrapper from his cheeseburger. 

“She kinda screwed this up,” Joe said. He was also beginning to recognize the unease that was trickling out. Since he didn’t feel it was his place to deal with Patrick’s emotional turmoil, he decided not to bring it up. Instead, he reiterated Andy’s previous point, “What can we do? Wait?”

Patrick tried not to sound strained, “Yeah, waiting sounds good. Let’s get back home first and go from there. By the time we’re back, maybe she’ll have this figured out?”

“Maybe,” Pete hummed, tugging at the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He was hoping to get a better look at Patrick’s face, with no such luck so far. Why was he being so unenthusiastic about approaching the venue? That absolutely seemed like a very Patrick-esque move to make. It worried him to not understand what was happening here, and he wondered whether or not this had anything to do with their relationship. 

“Ehh, I dunno,” Joe droned, now frowning with his arms folded. “The venue might not listen to us, yeah, but what else can we do? I hate waiting around for shit to happen.”

They collectively mumbled and nodded. Taking action was their best bet - or rather, it was their best bet when compared to being told to accept their fate for no final show.

Boldly, Andy decided to propose another solution, “What about setting up our own gig? I’m sure we could find _somewhere_ to host us.”

“You mean like a house show?” Joe was intrigued, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Basically, that’s what I was thinking.”

“Andy with the ideas tonight! Wow, dude, you’re on a roll.”

Pete was thrilled by this, “Yes! I bet we could find someone to lend us their basement or whatever. We could do it on the night of our original final tour date and everything!”

“We could put up a post on our website letting people know we’re looking for a space,” Andy said. He motioned across the table at Joe. “You could do that, right? You still have access to our Myspace login?”

“Yep, I got it. Oh my God, people are going to be so stoked when they see this. It’ll be just like when we were first starting out!” Joe exclaimed. His raised volume put the nearby toddlers and infants to shame.

“Hah, what are you talking about? We’re _still_ starting out,” Pete said.

The three of them shared a laugh. Patrick couldn’t bring himself to join in, and feigned interest for the remainder of their brainstorming session. It wasn’t until he was able to fleetingly squeeze Pete’s thigh beneath the table that he had spotlight returned to him.

Pete assumed the touch was related to Patrick’s dampened attitude, and he returned the affection by sneaking an arm around him for a split-second hug. While releasing him, he asked, “Didn’t Diane talk with you after our Toronto show? Did she say anything about what the hell is going on with Lincoln Hall?” 

“Ah,” Patrick shied away from the group’s mutual stare, “I don’t even remember. I was drinking before we went on.. And..”

“You sure you don’t remember?”

“Yeah.”


	17. Chapter 17

“One, two, one, two, three, four!”

Andy’s voice lingered for an instant before they tore into the music. The garage space bounced their harsh sound right back at them, concrete floors shaking and little paint chips in the ceiling trickling down. They became so absorbed in the song that they didn’t take a pause as they moved into the next one. Melodies crashed forward, the vocals more rough than usual. It wasn’t until they had played nearly half of a set that they slowed to take a break.

It was the middle of the week. Once they had caught up on family and friend time, especially with the winter holidays approaching, they had put in a few calls around town for an alternative venue. They had also posted general search on their Myspace page. Every place that bothered to answer them was either booked up for the next few months or had never heard of them. This left them to turn to the more underground scene in hopes of finding someone that would take them in for a final show. 

“Woo! That wasn’t bad,” Pete said, swinging his bass behind his back. “We’re gonna blow them away on Saturday.”

“I know, thank God Jesse is able to host us again,” Patrick noted as he sat on the nearest amp. 

Joe huffed a bit, “It’s just ‘cause it’s his birthday and he couldn’t find anyone else that wants to deal with him.”

“Yeah. We’re still lucky regardless.”

“I guess you’re right. You think he’ll pay us pretty well again?”

“Probably,” Andy said. He wiped his brow and went on, “I’m worried about playing outside, that’s all. It’s gonna be crazy cold.”

Joe made an effort to come off as less negative, “Jesse said that he would have a couple of heat lamps out for the crowd. That kid’s got money. Plus we’ll be jumping around on stage, we won’t be too cold.”

“Ooh, heat lamps? Fancy! Fancier than our original gig, anyway,” Pete beamed.

The group devolved into a conversation about what did and didn’t put an event in the ‘high end’ territory. Their instruments were momentarily abandoned and they stood around making jokes and reminiscing about previous shows they had played. It was nice, since they had been aching for a break for the last couple of songs. They needed to relax.

Patrick stepped away when his phone began to buzz with an incoming call. WIthout looking at the name and assuming it was his mother, he accepted the call. He half-yawned, “Yeah?”

Diana’s voice greeted him on the other end, “Hello, how’s practice going? Oh, can you remind Joe to work on his chord progression?”

“Shit-- Hey, my bad, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today,” Patrick fumbled. He involuntarily edged further into a corner. “And I can remind Joe about the chord progressions, sure.”

“Great. Now, do me one more favor and let everyone know that I got our original slot back at Lincoln Hall. Same time and everything,” she said, the sounds of her fingers typing on a keyboard in the background. “It was tough, but we’re back in business. The only catch was that people buying tickets at the door are going to have to pay a little more.”

Patrick gulped, “How cool, I can’t believe it.. So, that’s this Saturday, right? At eight?”

“You go on at eight. You all need to be there by five thirty for sound check.”

“Ah, yeah, makes sense.”

Diana’s annoyance was almost palpable, her tone shifting, “I hope you bring more enthusiasm than what you’re giving me right now. This is huge, Patrick. It’s a miracle that this was able to happen.”

“Right,” Patrick said. He switched the phone to his other hand, his eyes briefly flitting toward his bandmates.

“Nothing is more important than sticking to the schedule. By playing this show, you’re demonstrating how the fans can rely on you. You said you were going to play Chicago a second time - and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“Trust me, I know. I understand.”

“That’s what I need to hear, thank you. We’ll see you Saturday.”

Patrick hung up. The phone returned to his pocket, and he himself returned to the practice session.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I really just post an under 1,000 word chapter after not posting for a month? Guilty. I swear I'll be back on a regular posting schedule once I finish my current grad school class at the end of this month. (Message to the kiddos: Don't do grad school.)
> 
> Feel free to visit me on [Tumblr](https://moochymochi.tumblr.com)


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